The Dawning
by Tempestt
Summary: Dawn has finally arrived, but her existence still remains a mystery. Is she just the child of the Slayer and the Slayer of Slayers or is she something more? As factions rally and threats unfold, can Buffy and Spike put aside their differences to protect their daughter or will their actions only endanger her? Sequel to Dawn of a New Age
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from BtVS.

Thanks ever so to ObscureBookWyrm. She is so very talented. And patient. Very, very patient.

**The Dawning**

Chapter One

Spike leaned his elbows on the granite countertop, one hand wrapped around a warm mug of blood, the other poised over the keyboard of his laptop. He was unnaturally still as he stared at the screen. There was no expression on his face, his eyes were shadowed, and his mouth was set in an unyielding line.

His face remained unchanged as the video came to life. Buffy's tinny voice through the laptop speakers was almost obscenely loud in the dark, silent loft.

"Ohmigod. What is this? It's like tar!" The camera panned away from the beautiful mural the witches had painted on the nursery walls to Buffy, who was standing in front of the changing station he had built with his own hands. She had an expression of absolute horror as she stared down at Dawn's diaper.

Dawn. She was utterly perfect. She had tiny, perfectly formed hands and feet, chubby legs, dimpled knees, and a round little belly. She had a rosebud mouth, apple cheeks, and eyes so blue they could only be Spike's. She had a surprising abundance of dark brown curls that tousled messily around her head. Strike him dead as a poetic ponce, but she was brilliant. Utterly effulgent.

In the video she was only about three or four days old, and still a little sleepy. She yawned, her mouth making a tiny 'oh'. She rooted around a bit, finding her thumb, and patiently withstood her mother's less than practiced ministrations.

"Remember what the doctor said, Buffy. She's got to expel all the-"

"Stop. Just stop. No need to rehash _that _conversation. Okay. So the tabby things are on the bottom, then I lift this between her legs. Hey, this isn't so hard."

"Make it a little tighter, dear."

"But I don't want to cut off her circulation or something," Buffy pouted.

He couldn't see Joyce, but he could hear her smile when she spoke. "You're not going to cut off her circulation, but you do want to make sure the diaper stays on. You don't want it to leak."

"Eww."

Spike watched as Buffy readjusted the sticky tabs on Dawn's diaper. When Buffy was done, she beamed down at their daughter. The expression of pure joy on her face made Spike's heart seize.

"All better, baby. You're all nice and dry. Yes, you are!" Buffy leaned over and blew a raspberry on the baby's belly. Unimpressed, Dawn opened her sleepy blue eyes and yawned. Buffy giggled in response. She picked Dawn up off the changing station and carried her over to a rocking chair in the corner to sit down. When she fussed with the ties of her gown, she looked over at Joyce.

"Turn that off, Mom."

"But, Buffy."

"But nothing. No one needs to see my boobies. Turn it off when I'm feeding her."

"Oh, all right," Joyce said ungraciously.

The last thing Spike saw before the video went dark was the yellow gaze of the wolf painted on the nursery walls.

He stared at the dark screen. Dekker expected him at Eden hours ago, but over the last few days, Spike had lost interest in the club. Had lost interest in everything. After a while, he closed the laptop and stared across his loft into the bedroom area. Against the wall, next to the side of the bed where Buffy usually slept, was the crib he had ordered from the baby store.

Spike pushed off the counter, stalking over to it. His knuckles blanched white as he gripped the guardrail hard enough to make the polished wood creak. He stared down into the empty bed, decorated with the pale yellow and green bedding Joyce and Buffy had picked out. Embroidered on the blanket were lazy honeybees and pink butterflies. In the corner of the crib was a stuffed lamb that hummed "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" when you pulled its tail. It was all perfectly unused.

Rage built in his chest so intensely that it threatened to spill out of his throat in a wave of bile if he opened his mouth. A week had passed since Buffy had given birth and he had yet to hold his little girl. Had yet to even see her in the flesh.

The guardrail cracked and a wave of ferocity swept through him. With a roar of rage, he picked up the heavy piece of furniture and bashed it into the ground again and again until it broke apart in his hands. He shredded the mattress, rent the bedding, and stomped the broken frame into kindling.

When he was finished, he was heaving. Great pants of air, forced through his lungs and past his fangs. He looked around the loft. At all the things he had gathered because he thought Buffy would like them. Because that's what a man did for his family. He provided. He provided comfort and safety and, God help him, love. Things his family didn't want or need from him.

Spike swept up his leather duster and shrugged it on as he stomped to the front door. He took one last sweeping glance at the home he had made, then turned his back. He locked the door as he left, knowing he would never come back.

"Mom, I wish you'd stop taking videos of everything."

"There are people who can't be here who want to share in these moments, Buffy."

The worn-out new mother rolled her eyes. "I don't think Aunt Darlene is interested in twenty hours of Dawn eating, pooping, and sleeping."

Joyce hummed noncommittally, continuing to video Dawn sleeping in her bouncer that was sitting next to the couch. Apprehension built in Buffy's stomach when she saw her mother and watcher exchange a glance.

"Joyce, if I may."

"Of course." Joyce nodded as she walked out of the living room, fiddling with her recorder. The exchange was ambiguous enough that Buffy knew they'd planned it beforehand. Her spine tightened as she sat up straighter on the couch.

"How are you, Buffy?"

Buffy pursed her lips. Giles always started with pleasantries before he lashed a stripe off her back.

"Tired."

"I expect so."

The silence lengthened between them. Buffy shifted on the couch, watching as Giles sat with unnatural stillness, studying the toes of his brown leather loafers.

"Spike came by my flat the other day."

Buffy started. Not because Giles spoke suddenly, but at the words. The last person she expected to mention Spike was Giles. For the last week, she had listened to her mother's subtle and not so subtle insistence that she was treating Spike unfairly, but Giles was supposed to be on Buffy's side. He was supposed to sympathize with Buffy's position.

"Spying on me? Trying to wheedle information out of you about Dawn? Have you done the disinvite spell?"

"No."

"Giles! Spike's dangerous. He could hurt you if he has access to your house." Buffy's furious whisper was barely low enough to keep from waking Dawn.

"He's not going to hurt me, and you well know it, Buffy."

Buffy inhaled at Giles' sharp words. She'd been the victim of Giles' censure many times in the past, but she didn't expect it now. For once, Buffy was acting responsibly. Unlike with Angelus, she was putting her friends and family before herself. Why wasn't Giles proud of her for that?

"I know no such thing," she replied petulantly.

"Lie to yourself, but not to me."

The silence was unbearably loud in the room as they sat across from each other. In the kitchen, they could hear Joyce preparing dinner. Buffy couldn't look her Watcher in the eye, nor could she acknowledge his words. The hollow ache in her chest that had been building steadily only worsened under his glare.

"We were discussing business."

Buffy leapt at the opportunity to change the subject. "Business? His strip club?"

"Uh, no." Giles shifted uncomfortably at the mention at the less than savory aspects of Spike's business dealings. "He wanted to know if the Council would be responding to the threat of the Initiative."

"What threat? Weren't they totally overrun?"

"Yes. Their losses were high, but that doesn't mean the project itself has been shut down. That's what we need the Council for. We don't want the Initiative to be a threat in another year."

"Oh. Yeah. I guess getting half their soldiers eaten and losing their test subjects is just a minor setback."

"Yes, something like that," Giles responded drolly. "However, there's another problem." Buffy looked up sharply, waiting for Giles to continue. "There's bound to be research files on Dawn's conception. We need to get them away from the Initiative and the Council."

"No." All the air in Buffy's lungs was expelled in a gush. It was imperative that they wipe away all traces of Dawn's supernatural origins. Buffy didn't want the Initiative to come looking for her little girl again, and she couldn't even begin to imagine what the Council would do if they found out that Dawn had a vampire daddy.

"What are we going to do?"

"Willow and Tara have already hacked their system and deleted all electronic files, but Spike and I are concerned that there may be hard copies in the base somewhere. I've been in contact with the Council and they claim that the Initiative has been defunded and will be closing operations in the next few weeks."

"What does that mean?"

"At best, it means that any data will be stored in some forgotten warehouse. After all, the government is notoriously unorganized. At worse, their research will be given to another party to analyze."

"That party being the Watcher's Council?"

"Yes."

"So we need to get in there and retrieve all the hard copies."

"Easier said than done. The Pentagon has sent General Ellison to take possession of the site and facilitate shut-down procedures. The data I've been able to collect indicates that he is conscientious and detailed. Because of the breach, security is airtight. There's no way to get inside without alerting them to our presence."

Buffy stood, rubbing her sweating palms on her thighs. The denim felt prickly under her sensitive skin. "Then what are we going to do?"

"I'm not sure yet."

"We can't just wait around. We have to act now."

"I'm aware. Spike and I are formulating a plan."

"What does Spike care anyways?" She was aware that she sounded slightly hysterical, but she didn't care. She'd thought after escaping the Initiative labs that the threat to her child was gone, but it seemed to be unending.

"Besides the obvious," Giles growled.

Buffy ignored the censure. A wave of exhaustion assailed her and she sat heavily on the couch. It was all unending. The fear, the worry, the constant battling. She was never going to have peace.

"He also wanted to know when it would be safe to start looking for orphanages above ground. The underground rooms he provided for the children are crowded. Very few parents returned for their offspring."

"Which means all those kids are parentless. Orphaned by the Initiative." Buffy smoothed Dawn's unruly curls. Her baby's skull felt very small cupped in the palm of her hand.

"So it seems."

"Spike…he's still looking after them?"

"Why wouldn't he?"

Buffy shrugged.

"Spike doesn't strike me as the kind of man who abandons his responsibilities."

Buffy didn't take her eyes away from Dawn. "He's not a man," she whispered, her words barely audible. Giles didn't reply, but his disapproval was heavy in the room.

Buffy shook herself, looking back at Giles. "That's all you discussed?"

"Of course not. It barely factored. He wanted to know about you and Dawn. If you're eating well and getting enough sleep. If Dawn's healthy and gaining weight."

"A man asking about his family." Again, Buffy's words were barely audible.

This time, Giles didn't let it pass. "Quite."

The silence between them was less strained, but there was a low-level energy vibrating from Giles that made Buffy uneasy.

"Buffy. I must confess something to you."

"I'm not up for confessions, Giles." There was no strength in her voice. The last week had been exhausting for Buffy. Between the strain of giving birth and the lack of sleep afterwards, she hadn't quite returned to the level of vitality she had before the labor. Hell, since before she found out she was pregnant. Exhaustion was her constant companion. Sure, Joyce helped, but a small traitorous part of Buffy wished that Spike was there to get up in the middle of the night to bring Dawn to her bedside when she cried or to be the one to change her diaper and comfort her back to sleep at three in the morning. Just a little more sleep, she promised herself, then she'd be on her game.

"Perhaps. But you need to know this."

Buffy shrugged in agreement, keeping her eyes on her tightly clasped hands in her lap.

"When we tracked you in the Initiative laboratory, we encountered Dr. Patel, your OBGYN."

"Oh. What did that bitch have to say?"

"Quite a bit, actually. Much of it revolved around how she was going to hunt you and Dawn down. What she wanted to do to your child, and how she was going to accomplish said atrocities."

"She's insane," Buffy swallowed around the lump in her throat, remembering how it felt to have the fanatical woman pinned beneath her foot. How easy it would have been to snap her neck and walk away. But she couldn't. Heroes didn't murder humans.

"She was."

Buffy looked up, her eyes hard. Her mouth worked before she finally spit out a single word. "Spike?" Yet another mark against the vampire, but somehow she couldn't quite add it onto the mental tally she kept.

"No." Giles waited until Buffy's eyes settled fully on him. "Me," he confessed without a hint of hesitation. Buffy's eyes widened and he plunged forward. "Spike refused. He had her in his grasp while she threatened Dawn, but he couldn't do it. He said you'd never forgive him. So I did it. I took responsibility."

"That was wrong," Buffy whispered. "It's murder."

Needing a moment to gather himself, Giles took off his glasses to polish them. "In war there are casualties."

"This wasn't a war."

"Wasn't it?"

"No."

"What defines a war, Buffy?"

"Well…" she trailed off, a crease between her brows. "It's a fight between two countries."

"It would be better served to say a fight between two factions since countries engage in civil wars frequently."

"Oh. Yeah. I guess. But there weren't really two factions." The misery she had seen from inside the labs flashed through her mind. All those demons tortured for science, all those demon families destroyed by the Initiative. "I mean…like an organized army or something."

"Quite right. The demons weren't organized. But what you are really saying is that because demons aren't recognized as sentient creatures as such they have no rights, isn't that so?"

Buffy frowned. "No," she answered unsteadily. At one time she would have agreed with that sentiment, but that time had long passed. There were evil demons in the world that gave up their right to existence when they preyed on the innocent, but for the most part those poor creatures in the labs didn't deserve being the victims of the Initiative's sick experiments. "They weren't a faction. They weren't an opposing military force." Horror dawned on her as she said the words. "For the most part they were innocent."

"Quite right. It wasn't a war. It was genocide. A superior force decimated an entire species as if they had the right. The demon community, and mark my words, Buffy, they are a community, had no legal recourse to fall back upon, no military to protect them, no hero to champion them."

"They had Spike," she whispered.

"Yes."

She inhaled deeply through her nose. When she looked at her Watcher, only honesty shone in her eyes. "If what the Initiative did is wrong, then am I wrong to be the Slayer?"

Giles slumped, looking a wearied. "It's a moral quandary, isn't it? Is it wrong to torture a sentient being? Most definitely. Is it wrong to hunt down evil and destroy it? I think not. You're a champion, Buffy. It's who and what you are."

"Yes. But I realized something down there in those labs, Giles."

"What's that?"

"My protection shouldn't be limited to only humans. If I'm to be the Slayer. A True Slayer. Then I need to be balanced to keep the balance."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that I'm no longer on the 'just for humans' champion payroll. For now on, I protect all benign creatures. Human or demon. They should all be able to come to me for help, and I won't judge creatures by their race any longer."

"Yes. That….that sounds wonderfully ambitious."

She flashed him a small smile. "I need you to help me. I need to learn more about demons than I ever have before. Not just how to kill them, but what makes them tick. Their customs, their practices. I need to know which ones need my protection and which ones I need to slay."

"I have a great deal of books on demon types."

"No Council books. I don't trust them. They've been telling Slayers for years that all demons are bad. I'm starting to suspect that it's more than just a lie to keep their Slayers safe."

"How so?"

"I think Slayers were always meant to keep the balance, but the Council perverted our calling. I think they took over Slayers as a tool for their own purposes, instead of allowing us to fulfill our purpose of maintaining the balance for all creatures."

Giles sat back. "I hadn't thought of it. I'll see what I can find."

She nodded, and Giles' face clouded. "Buffy, we need to talk about Dr. Patel."

She held up her hand to ward him off. "I don't know how I feel right now. I'm starting to understand my place in the universe, but it goes against everything I am to kill humans, even evil ones. I don't know if I'll ever be able to do my duty if it comes to that. And I don't know how I feel about you doing it."

"And Spike?" he asked softly.

"Spike did more than kill a human who pointed a gun at Dawn and me. He ran off and committed a slaughter."

"Did he confess to that?"

"He said as much. That chip is out…and now…"

"Buffy, if it's any consolation, I truly don't believe that Spike would feed again."

She was silent for a long moment, studying her blanched knuckles. "I'm not sure if I believe he will either."

Giles sat back with a huff. "I don't understand. Why are you keeping him away?"

"It's hard to explain. For the last months I pushed away the knowledge he's a killer. I just ignored it. Denied it to myself." Buffy looked off into the distance, seemingly lost in herself.

"But when he killed that boy in the woods," Giles prodded.

Buffy nodded. "It was just so in my face, you know. Giles…he's killed a lot of people."

"Yes, but-"

"Buffy!" Joyce shrieked from the kitchen. Giles and Buffy jumped to their feet, rushing into the other room.

Joyce was standing by the open door, staring out into the back yard. Buffy shoved her aside and peered out. At first all she could see were shadows, but as the moonlight filtered in from the canopy of leaves, she began to make out forms.

Two dozen vampires were arrayed in her backyard.

Buffy took a step back, shocked not at the amount of vampires, but at their position of reverence as they knelt in the dirt before her.

"What the hell." Buffy was more than a little confused.

One vampire separated from the rest. He was a giant, well over six and a half feet tall, with skin so black it seemed to absorb the moonlight. His braided black hair and beard fell to his waist, and she could see glints of amber beads and coils of bronze and copper woven into the plaits. Buffy was still inside the doorway, but she fell back into a fighting stance automatically. The demon was the embodiment of intimidation.

He stopped just inside the square of yellow light that spilled out the door into the back yard. With the light now illuminating his face, Buffy could see that on either side of his wide, squat nose were black dots tattooed across his cheeks and on his forehead there was an engraved burn scar that could only be caused by a holy symbol. Except this holy symbol had no basis in Christianity. It was the sun cresting the horizon, stylized sunrays beaming off the half circle. It was a very simple depiction of the dawn.

The giant knelt in the square of light, his eyes respectfully averted toward the ground. "_Ama-gi_, we have come to pay our respects to you and The Miraculous One."

"Good Lord," Giles muttered from behind her, but all Buffy could do was stare. She remembered the strange occurrence a few weeks ago of the gangly vampire who'd staked his own sire to protect Dawn. At the time there'd been a weirdly religious vibe to the whole event that she'd shaken off, but now, staring at the collection of reverent vampires in her back yard, Buffy realized there was more to it than she'd originally thought.

Sensing that Buffy was at a loss for words, Giles stepped forward. "Are you referring to Buffy's child?"

"Yes," the vampire nodded, his eyes still averted. "The child of the Slayer and the Slayer of Slayers. She is to be our Dawning."

Giles swallowed, racking his brain for any hint that he'd ever heard the term Miraculous One or Dawning while he had frantically searched for answers to Buffy's mysterious pregnancy. "Are you saying she's prophesied?"

The vampire shook his head slowly, looking up at Giles for the first time. "That is beyond my knowledge, but we don't have to be aware of her destiny to know she's important."

A bubble of anger built beneath Buffy's breastbone. She pushed past Giles to glare at the behemoth. "You don't know anything!" There was no way that she was going to allow her daughter to become a prophecy girl like her. Dawn was going to have a wonderful, destiny-free life, unlike her mother.

The vampire rose to his feet, and Buffy took an unconscious step back. The vampire was stoically calm as he spoke in a deep, melodious voice.

"I've seen over five millennia, _Ama-gi_. In all that time, never has there been such a child as The Miraculous One."

"Five millennia," Giles said faintly. "I had no idea there were any vampires that old."

The vampire ignored him, continuing to address Buffy. "We are here to pay our respects and offer our services."

Taken aback, Buffy gaped. "Services?"

"We have all sworn to protect The Miraculous One with our unworthy lives. She is our Dawning. She is destined for greatness."

"Oh, no!" Buffy spat, her cheeks flushed with fury. She advanced on the vampire, stake at the ready. "No way am I letting you freaks anywhere near my daughter. I'm the Slayer and if any of you think you can take her for your own evil, perverted agenda, you'd better think again."

The vampire looked at the point of the stake pressed firmly above his heart, then back into Buffy's eyes.

"I know not what The Miraculous One's purpose is. She may be destined for evil or for good. It makes no matter to us."

"Right, the evil, bloodsucking vampires don't care if the Miraculous One is destined to wipe them from the face of the Earth."

A mountain of muscle rippled as he shrugged. "All that matters is that she succeeds in her destiny. We are pledged to see her through. To protect her at all costs. Even at the cost of our existence."

As Buffy stared up at the vampire, she had no idea what to think. All she had to do was shove, and he would be fertilizer for her mother's azaleas, but there was a small nagging doubt deep inside her. From inside the house she could hear Dawn start to wail and the soft sounds of her mother shushing her.

There had never been a satisfactory explanation as to why Dawn existed. She was a biological impossibility, but a factual reality, yet no one knew how or why.

Why was Dawn here, and what if she was in danger? If she did have a destiny, was having a battalion of vampire bodyguards part of it?

She looked at the other vampires. They had risen to their feet, watching her interaction with their leader with great curiosity, but they stood far enough away to be unthreatening. From where she stood she could see the same rising sun glyph on their foreheads.

"What's your name?" Buffy demanded.

"Gilgamesh."

Behind her, Giles choked. "_The _Gilgamesh?"

The man bowed his head regally. The exchange was lost on Buffy.

"Whatever, Gilly. I don't give a hoot."

"Buffy." Giles sounded appalled. "You don't address a-"

"A vampire. That's all he is, Giles. And I don't trust him." She reaffirmed her gaze on Gilgamesh. "I don't trust you or your little battalion of butt monkeys. You understand me?"

"Nor should you, _Ama-gi_."

"Don't call me that. Whatever it is."

"How will it please you to be addressed?"

"Slayer. Just Slayer."

"But you aren't 'just' Slayer. You are as miraculous as your child."

Something warmed inside her, but she pushed it away. She took a step back, removing her stake from his chest, but not lowering her guard. "I'm going to let you go for now. But I'm watching you."

Gilgamesh pressed his hands together and bowed deeply. "We will not fail you or The Miraculous One."

"Buffy?" Joyce appeared in the doorway and the vampire collective fell to their knees as one. The action was so startling that Buffy jumped back a few feet. She watched as the vampires leaned forward, pressing their foreheads into the dirt.

Buffy looked back at her mother, who stood framed in a halo of golden light. In her arms she held Dawn, who looked over the contingent of vampires with a bearing as regal as any queen.

Then the week-old infant giggled.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from BtVS.

As always a huge thank you to ObscureBookWyrm.

A/N: You know shit has gotten serious when your tertiary characters get a whole chapter to themselves.

**The Dawning**

Chapter Two

Graham signed the off-duty log, accompanied with a chin lift to the officer assigned to checking identification. In the distance, General Ellison issued a battery of never-ending facility shut-down orders in a rumbling voice that commanded respect and obedience.

Steeling himself against the urge to scream, Graham walked away. While lying in the dark, staring at the ceiling in his emergency barracks, Graham had sworn to never again blindly follow orders. A lifetime of training, first by his stoic father, then by his various sports coaches, and lastly his superiors in the Army, had honed his instincts to obey without question, but after witnessing the fuckery that was the Initiative, Graham knew that he could no longer go on as he had.

A man needed to know his own mind, not have it told to him.

It had taken nearly a week to sort the chaos left behind by the enemy incursion: separating demons from humans, identifying the dead, and collecting action reports from the survivors. Now it was time for sterilization procedures to begin. Computer drives needed to be backed up, and all hard copies of the research were to be collected, collated, and filed in boxes to be moved to a yet-unknown secure facility. All organics including tissue samples and specimens were to be destroyed.

_Specimens._

Graham's guts twisted at the word.

Since the incursion, only half the CCTVs were functioning. Much of the facility was damaged, including the electronic surveillance system, making it easier to move around unnoticed inside the labs.

He headed towards the elevator bank, cutting left when he was out of recording view, and passing the emergency exit where he had led the demon woman to safety.

He had thought about her nonstop as he slogged through the emotionally numbing work of sorting the dead. He tried to retreat behind his soldier training as he laid his friends and coworkers out on white tarps along the walls of the main floor, where they waited to be examined by forensic teams before being sealed in black body bags for disposal. Their bodies would never be returned home. They would be listed as MIA, and their families would never know closure, because their mangled corpses would raise too many questions.

Instead of finding solace in emotional disconnect, Graham's thoughts returned again and again to the demoness. He worried about her safety, hoped she'd reunited with her children, and felt an odd pressure in his chest at the thought of her returning to a man.

Which lead him to thinking of Forrest and what he'd done to her. What Graham did to Forrest.

The memory evoked a powerful mixture of emotions. Anger, disgust, savage satisfaction at avenging and protecting his woman, only to be followed by sharp disappointment and loss at the knowledge that the possessiveness burning in his chest was fleeting and false.

There was also a deep sense of sadness that the man Forrest had once been was gone. His friend had been just as destroyed by the Initiative as the creatures they experimented on.

Then there was the fear, because Forrest was missing. Graham had searched for him, but never found his body, which meant the dangerous man was unaccounted for.

Which brought Graham back to his worry for the demon woman's safety.

The muscles across Graham's shoulders tensed and released when he slid the stolen key card into the reader. It flashed green with a click, and he slipped through the portal.

The arrival of General Ellison resulted in the tightening of security. All low ranking officers' security levels, including Graham's, had been reduced to green zones only. All, except the dead's.

Graham glanced at the name on the key card. He hadn't known Sgt. Nolan personally, but the coded yellow dot on the upper left corner of the card said that he was clear for all yellow zones and below. That included sublabs.

His booted footsteps were loud, ricocheting around the empty stairwell as he descended. The cement walls seemed colder down here, more colorless and gray. This is what Graham imagined purgatory must be like. A cold, timeless, and unforgiving place drifting above the burning fires of hell.

Graham doubted that anyone had been down here since the breach, beyond the necessity of ascertaining that the automated food and water dispensers still worked. No one entered sublabs unless specifically ordered. The cramped area was claustrophobic cluster of rooms that bled despair from the cold cement walls.

Sublabs were an afterthought that was never meant to see fruition. The only one who ever spent time down here was Dr. Walsh.

Currently, Dr. Walsh was listed as MIA. Her body had yet to be found in the carnage, but the lack of information in room 314 was disturbing. It was clear that the computer hard drives had been wiped, all specimens destroyed, and whatever had lain on top of the very large, ominous examination table in the center of the room was gone.

Graham had a creeping feeling that the woman was out there somewhere, plotting her next psychotic move. He just hoped he was transferred out before it happened.

He turned the corner and faced the only three cells in the sublab. One cell was empty, another held five small demon children, and the third held a single child. All the children in the middle cell went still, their large, terrified eyes focused on him, but the solitary child remained crouched in the corner of his cell, face hidden behind brown, leathery wings.

A burning sensation in his gut slowly crawled up his throat. He was a good soldier. A good man. He lived and breathed his country. He believed in America. Believed in everything she represented. Freedom, liberty and justice. _For All_. He couldn't leave these children here to be sanitized.

He couldn't.

Decision made, he strode towards the electronic lock. A shiver a terror ran through the children as they huddled by the back wall. Their terror froze him. He swallowed hard, wetting his suddenly dry mouth.

"I won't hurt you."

A young boy who stood protectively in front of the group snorted derisively. He looked to be about twelve and was the eldest of the children. If it weren't for the small protrusion of horns peeking out from an abundance of curly brown hair and the slight reddish tint to his eyes he would have passed for human.

Graham looked the boy in the eye, his square jaw set with seriousness. "I swear. I'm here to get you out."

"We ain't takin' no word of a sneak. You swivel-eyed gits think we're easy 'cause we ain't got our licks, but we're more sly than you think."

Graham grimaced. He had no idea what the boy just said, but he knew it was all for show. The kid was scared, and scared boys tended to be all swagger. The direct approach, he decided, would be best. He slid his key card along the reader harder than he needed to, waiting for the force field to disengage before taking a single step into the cell.

All the children gasped, huddling behind the boy. Graham felt sick.

"Listen up, kid. You have every right not to trust me. Fuck, I wouldn't trust me." The kids' scared eyes widened at the profanity, but Graham didn't falter. "I'm going to lead you out of here. Either you follow or you stay. But you should know. In about an hour another man wearing a uniform like mine will come down those stairs and the rifle he'll be carrying will be the last thing you see in this world."

Graham hated being so blunt, but the way he figured it, these children had long since matured beyond kid gloves while being imprisoned at the Initiative. God only fucking knew what Maggie Walsh had done to them while she had been alone down here.

The tile squeaked under his heel as he pivoted and strode out of the cell. He paused in front of the third cell, staring at the small demon inside. Whatever it was, it was scary as hell. Its desiccated, leathery skin was the color of deer jerky, and the sharp yellow spikes marching down its spine and sprouting along its arms and legs looked deadly. It was not a demon to be cuddled. Even by its parents. If it had parents.

Graham glanced at the restraining pole that hung on the wall. The hollow steel pole was threaded with a high-tension cord that looped at the tip.

"Don't." Graham looked down at the boy who stood at his elbow. "His kind are toughs. No brains, all blood. Uncork his cage and he'll crack us all." The other children stood at the mouth of their cell, still silently staring, not a whimper among them.

That disturbed him the most. The knowledge that they were beyond terrified tears.

"I can't leave him." Graham snatched the pole off the wall and disengaged the force field. The children instantly shot down the hall towards the exit.

"Wait!" Graham pivoted, taking a step towards them. Something hard slammed between his shoulder blades, knocking him forward. Balancing on the balls of his feet, Graham twisted his upper body, using the momentum to throw the weight over his shoulder and onto the ground.

One of the demon's arm spines slashed his cheek, leaving an acid burn in its wake. Graham ignored the pain and swung the pole around. The demon growled and tried to kip to its feet, but Graham looped the wire over its head and strung it tight. He held on while the demon struggled, applying just enough pressure to restrict the broodling's airflow.

The demon slumped, controlled, but not unconscious. Graham shrugged his shoulder against his cheek to wipe away the blood. He didn't dare take one of his hands away from the restraint pole. The small demon was acquiescent, but that could change at any moment.

Prodding him up the stairs, Graham was relieved to see the herd of children gathered at the door that exited into the corridor. They shifted far away so he could reach the card reader. Using the pole as leverage, Graham pushed the restrained demon against the wall, holding it there as he turned to address the other children.

"Approximately twenty yards to the left is a freight elevator that runs directly to the surface and into Breaker's Wood." He looked directly at the boy as he spoke. "We have to move quickly and quietly."

"Like mice, we are."

Behind him the other children nodded. Graham's eyes lingered on a green-haired girl who couldn't be more than three. The more afraid she became, the bluer her skin turned.

"It's going to be okay, sweetheart. I won't let anything happen to you."

She didn't respond, ducking behind another slightly taller girl who she held onto with a death grip.

Graham motioned to them to be quiet as he slid his card through the reader and wedged open the door to peek out. When he didn't see anyone he opened the door wider. Suddenly the pole jerked in his hand, the handle shoving hard into his chest. Graham's lower floating rib snapped under the blunt force. He fell back against the doorjamb, wheezing for breath.

The pole twisted, and Graham's numbed fingers couldn't maintain their hold. The demon darted out into the hall, yanking off the restraining pole as he fled in the wrong direction. Graham righted himself just as the demon disappeared around the corner. There was a cacophony of shouts, a god-awful inhumane screech, then a smattering of gunfire.

Graham stood transfixed. A tsunami of emotions ran over him. In a blink he was back in the moment when the Initiative was overrun-the shouts, the screams, the rattle of gunfire. Demons and men locked in combat fueled by bloodlust and panic. A cold sweat broke out all over his body, raising the fine hairs on his arms and nape. He leaned against the doorway, his jellied legs suddenly unable to support him. He tried to breathe and couldn't.

"Mister."

The eldest boy yanked on his sleeve, his red-brown eyes without a touch of sympathy.

"We got to scarper. We cain't let 'em cage us again."

Pushing down the panic and horror the memories flooded him with, Graham glanced down the corridor to make sure the coast was clear. Knowing the soldiers would be on them any minute, he led the children out into the hall towards the freight elevator.

Graham slid his card along the reader, calling the elevator. A tiny cry caught his attention. The little green-haired girl straggled behind, her tiny legs unable to keep up with the older children.

The sounds of battle died down, followed by the sharp bark of Ellison ordering the men to check on the sublabs.

He ran back, snatching the little girl up in his arms. The neon green of her frightened tears stained the pristine olive drab of his tee, and they were icy cold against his skin.

The elevator doors opened and he herded the children inside. In the car, he pressed against the wall, hiding his identity as his fellow soldiers rounded the corner. The doors closed on their angry shouts.

When they exited into Breaker's Woods, concern swamped Graham when he looked down at the young children. He couldn't just release them into the wild, but he had no idea where to take them either.

It mattered little at the moment; getting them away from the Initiative was of immediate importance.

"This way." As he led them into the woods he asked them if any of them knew how to get back to their homes. The solemn children shook their heads.

"I know a place," the boy said. "Me pater told me to go there if he never came home. I was on me way when you rotten sneaks caught me up." The last words were spat at Graham, followed by a hateful look in the boy's eye. The soldier accepted it as his due.

"Show me," Graham demanded, letting the boy lead him into the sewers.

They halted in front of a round metal door the length and width of the sewer tunnel.

"The password is Aliyah," the boy told him.

Graham banged his fist on the steel door. A small panel slid open, revealing gray, soulless eyes.

"Aliyah."

The panel snapped shut, and the large door angled open on a smooth, oiled pivot. Deep bass flooded into the sewer, along with the scents of cigarette smoke and floral perfume. _Eden _was scrawled in neon blue lighting along the wall.

A huge, gray-skinned demon with backswept horns and a nasty smile blocked the doorway. The demon's gray eyes scanned Graham, his face growing harder and colder as he took in the olive drab uniform he wore.

Graham regretted not securing a concealed weapon before signing the off-duty log. As well trained as he was, Graham knew he was no match for the demon staring him down.

The boy stepped up, addressing the huge demon without fear.

"Me pater told me to come here for sanctuary. Said the Boss would take care of me." The boy glanced at the other children. "Us," he reiterated.

The demon eyed the children, before returning his cold gaze to Graham.

"And him?"

The boy's brow clouded.

"He done broke us out."

The demon stepped aside, allowing them entrance, his expression still cold.

Graham wasn't a coward, but he sure as hell wasn't stupid. He slowly backed away, heading for the nearest sewer exit.

The demon's predatory grin ignited all of Graham's fighting instincts. He jumped to the side, but the demon was faster. A freight train of a fist slammed into his jaw, knocking him down hard onto the wet bricks. Fire bloomed in his cheek as the demon punched him again and again in the face.

"You got a lotta fuckin' balls comin' down here, soldier boy. I'm gonna love ripping your flesh from your bones."

The bloody word-picture followed Graham down the deep hole of darkness he spiraled into.

"Chantilly. He's one of those cock-sucking Initiative soldiers. Fucking bold as brass comin' down here into our world."

"He's not like them. He saved me. And those kids. Now you leave him be."

Graham clawed his way out of the dark hole he'd fallen into, following the voice of an angel towards the light.

It was her.

_Chantilly. _

He rolled her name around, caressing it from every angle. It was the kind of name that curled the tip of the tongue, rolling like a deep, licking kiss. He wanted to do just that, kiss her while curling his tongue around her name.

He turned his head, desperate for the sight of her. He saw just enough to know he was lying on a black leather couch in some sort of plush business office before his world up-ended, and he had to grit his teeth to keep the bile down.

"Go get the boss. He's coming around," the angel ordered.

Graham soldiered up, locking away the agony in his skull. After taking a few deep breaths, he tried to sit up, only to have a small hand push him back down.

"Don't get up yet."

There was no way he was going to remain on his back in enemy territory.

Taking another deep breath, he struggled to his feet, forcing her to step back. Once he knew he'd be able to stay upright without humiliating himself by sicking up all over his boots, he opened his eyes, immediately seeking her out.

She was whole and healthy looking. Her creamy skin glowed and her coral hair was clean and shiny. Although, the dark shadows beneath her lantern-blue eyes made him want to pull her close and shelter her.

She was also nearly naked.

His breath lodged in his throat as he stared at the pink-spangled crop top that pushed up her breasts until they nearly spilled out. He hadn't noticed before, but her cream skin naturally blushed a rosy hue in her deep cleavage, spreading over delicate collarbones that were outlined in gold dust.

He wondered if it did the same at the crease in her thighs, then immediately damned himself for the thought.

Her bare midriff revealed a gold dolphin leaping over a pink jewel dangling in the hollow of her belly button. Her hot-pink spandex miniskirt ended at the curve of her ass, leaving her long, creamy legs bared to feet that were shod in the tallest pair of pink rhinestone fuck-me heels he'd ever seen.

He told himself to stop staring.

Instead he inhaled the scent of tea roses.

Her hand dropped away, and he had to bite back a protest. Even in her six-inch stilettos, the top of her head only came to his nose. She'd be a perfect fit under his arm if he tugged her close.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice husky, discordant. Too world-weary. Too damaged. "Being a hero again?"

"No, ma'am." He vehemently disagreed with her assessment. If anything he was a coward. Only a coward followed orders they knew in their guts to be wrong. Only a coward turned a blind eye while innocent people were tortured and slaughtered.

"I'm no hero."

Her fey features blanked, her amazing lantern-blue eyes focused on the olive drab of his uniform.

"Yeah, I guess betraying your country makes you a traitor."

Graham's jaw hardened, and he tasted blood from his split lips.

"I didn't betray my country. The Initiative did. Rescuing you, those children. That's the only right thing I've done since being assigned to this mission."

"If not a traitor, then why not a hero?"

She still wouldn't look him in the eye, and an invisible noose tightened around Graham's chest, making it hard for him to draw a breath.

"If I was a hero, I wouldn't have played along like I did. I wouldn't have worried about my career instead of doing the right thing the first time I knew something was wrong."

He stepped closer to her, forcing her to tilt her head to look up at him.

"If I had done my duty to my country, to myself, I would have had the Initiative shut down long before they ever captured you."

Her pink tongue darted out to lick her shiny lower lip. Graham clenched his hands to stop himself from reaching for her.

"You could have done that? You had the power?"

It was his turn to look away, because he really didn't have that power. He was a lowly private with no idea how far up the ladder the Initiative plan went or how the top brass would have responded to a whistleblower. At worst, he would have ended up in Leavenworth or at the very least he would have been reassigned to Antarctica or some hellhole like Belize.

Cool fingertips brushed his creased brow. Helplessly, he leaned into her touch, feeling himself drowning in her bottomless eyes.

"I don't think you could have stopped it. I think that you did the best that you could in a very bad situation."

"That's no excuse. I didn't stop what happened to you."

"You saved me."

His eyes closed in agony. "Too little, too late," he whispered.

"What's this then?"

Graham jerked to attention, angling himself protectively in front of Chantilly.

He opened his mouth, but was shocked speechless.

Even disheveled, looking as if he hadn't slept in a week, and dressed in a perfectly tailored but rumpled _Hugo Boss _suit, Graham recognized Hostile Seventeen.

The vampire's eyes haunted the soldier's dreams. Twin blue fires burning with hate and anger, slowing turning into yellow, sulfuric flame without losing a lick of emotion.

The man proved the Initiative's rhetoric of subterrestrials being little better than animals false.

Vampires were cataloged as particularly clever mimics, able to imitate their prey long enough for them to feed. Unfeeling and merciless, they were predatory animals, nothing more.

But when Graham looked into Hostile Seventeen's eyes, he knew the rhetoric for the lie that it was. There was no way the man before him was unfeeling. No matter what spectrum it fell into, hate was an emotion, and the man displayed it towards the Initiative in spades.

"Private Graham Miller, US Army."

Graham didn't bother to offer his hand.

Hostile Seventeen looked him over with cool detachment, a corner of his mouth quirking in amusement. There was nothing threatening in his stance. A cut crystal tumbler dangled in one hand while the other was tucked in his loose pants pocket, but there was an aura of restrained violence that made all of Graham's soldiering instincts take point.

"Dekker was right. You've got some brass balls, boy." Ice clinked when the vampire raised his glass to take a drink.

"Mr. Spike." Chantilly tried to step around Graham to intercede, but the soldier blocked her way.

All amusement fled Spike's face as he straightened up from his leisurely slump against the doorjamb.

"Not very bright though," Spike murmured silkily.

Chantilly laid a small hand on Graham's bicep. It was all he could do to conceal his shiver.

"Mr. Spike would never hurt me."

Graham tore his gaze away from the vampire who was watching them very carefully to look down at his demoness. Her lips were curved upwards in a not-quite smile, but it was enough to make the hum of leashed violence vibrating his insides ease a fraction.

"This him then?" Spike asked.

Chantilly didn't answer, only nodded while still staring into Graham's eyes.

"Well, go on then. You've got customers waiting."

She drew away, biting her lip.

"Go on. I promise not to bruise the boy, but we've got business to discuss."

Graham watched her leave. Beyond the doorway he could see a stage with a half-naked, dancing girl.

"This is a strip club."

"Yep."

"And Chantilly works for you?"

"Got it in one. Maybe you are bright."

Graham ignored the man's sarcasm. "Dancing?"

Spike shrugged. "When she wants."

Graham seethed, his large hands fisting along his sides. He wanted nothing more than to slam his fists into the smug man's face repeatedly.

"She shouldn't…not after…" Graham locked his eyes on the vampire, his entire being vibrating with hostility. "You can't force her to do that."

Spike stepped into the room, slamming the door behind him. Gone was the jaded businessman. In his place was a predator, his presence swamping the room until it felt like Graham was choking on the gathering shadows.

"I don't force her to do anything. I'm not the Initiative."

Protectiveness made Graham brave. Chantilly was worth fighting any battle for. His bones ached where Dekker landed his blows, but it didn't stop Graham from drawing himself up taller to face down the dangerous demon swaggering towards him.

"She needs someone to take care of her."

They stood inches apart, neither willing to back down. "You'd better learn, boy. You don't 'take care' of women. They can care for themselves."

"I know that," Graham spat. "That doesn't mean she doesn't deserve someone to care for her. Pamper her. _Fucking _protect her."

Spike arched a dark, condescending brow.

"That goin' to be you?"

Graham raised his chin, refusing to answer. If Chantilly let him, he'd take care of her any way she wanted, and never ask a thing in return.

"Chantilly says you got her out during the rescue mission."

"Her being there wasn't right."

"Just her?"

Graham glared at the ground, his hands fisted in impotent frustration. "None of it was right," he ground out.

The vampire was silent.

Graham felt lost, rudderless. Completely without direction. His whole life had been spent following orders, and now he just wanted out. Wanted something more.

"I hear the Initiative is being shut down. Some bigwig from the Pentagon is cleaning house."

Graham eyed the vampire, uncertain of what he should say. Any information he shared with the enemy would be grounds for treason.

Yet at the same time, the man across from him held the key to the very thing he wanted. Graham had a feeling that if he didn't gain Spike's trust he would never see Chantilly again.

"They're beginning sanitization procedures. That's why I got the children out. They were going to be neutralized."

"Wankers," Spike hissed. He glared at the floor, his jaw flexing. "You took a pretty big risk, sneaking them out."

"It was the right thing to do. It doesn't begin to make up for everything I did wrong."

Spike crossed the room to the wet bar, pouring another brandy for himself and one for Graham.

Graham didn't hesitate to take the drink offered to him. He threw it back, hissing through the burn.

Graham cleared his throat, uncomfortable about what he wanted to ask, but was time to grow some hair on his balls.

"Are Ms. Summers and the child okay?"

The glass tumbler Graham held hit the white shag carpet with a dull thud when he smacked into the far wall. The solider kept his expression stoic as Spike held him there, the vampire's fangs centimeters from his face.

"You don't talk about my family, soldier boy. _Ever._"

"Understood." Graham replied as calmly as possible. The ache in his head began to throb again, and behind his stony façade his heart was racing. Despite his training, he was no match for a master vampire.

"What happened to them wasn't right. _Nothing _that happened there was right."

Graham couldn't get the image of Chantilly huddled naked on the floor out of his mind. A beautiful flower, left to shrivel and die.

Spike's vamp face faded, revealing his cool, distrustful human face.

Slowly the vampire backed away. He poured himself another drink, watching Graham with dark speculation. When Spike held up the heavy decanter, Graham swiped up his tumbler from the ground, cautiously crossing to the vampire for another drink.

"You want to help make it right?"

The silence was thick as Graham examined the vampire. The demon was calm again, but the violence was still there, just beneath the cool façade.

"How?"

Spike took another drink, visibly weighing his words. "You should know, solider boy, that I'll know if you lie to me."

Graham merely cocked a cool brow. Vampires had excellent senses. The man across from him could undoubtedly hear every frightened stutter of Graham's heart.

Spike set down his drink, aiming his eyes at Graham's pulse, while angling his ear to listen.

"My family's safety is very important to me. The existence of my child is…" Spike licked his lips. "I need all the evidence of her existence to be destroyed. The electronic files have already been erased, but there's bound to be physical evidence. If it falls into the wrong hands…My child doesn't deserve that. She's innocent."

It was the most that Graham had ever heard the vampire utter in one go. He knew exactly where he could find the research. Destroying it would be easy.

It suddenly occurred to Graham that the vampire needed him. _Desperately._

"I can do that. Easily. But I want something from you in return."

The heavy crystal tumbler Spike held hit the glass top of the wet bar with a loud smack. "I thought you wanted to do the right thing?"

"Doing the right thing doesn't necessarily mean only doing something for you. I have another debt to pay. I want access to your club."

"I won't have you stalking Chantilly," Spike snarled.

"I'm not going to stalk her," Graham growled back. "I want to get to know her. Take care of her, if she'll let me."

"Nothing good comes of demons and humans mixin'."

"Nothing, except your child," Graham returned without a hint of smugness.

Spike watched him, considering his offer.

"That's all you want? I'm askin' you to commit treason. If you're caught you'll spend the rest of your days in Leavenworth or some such, and all you want is a chance to see her?"

Graham looked Spike square in the eye. "She's worth it."

Spike shook his head but there was an odd light in his eyes. Graham dared to believe it was respect.

"Fine. You do this and you'll be welcome here whenever you want. Beyond that, you're on your own."

Graham nodded. "I'll do it tonight."

"How can I know if you'll keep your word?"

"You can't. We'll just have to trust each other."

Spike snorted, and poured them another drink.

A/N: During WWII the Youth Aliyah program was responsible for smuggling more than 14,000 children out of Germany. They, along with many other similar groups, risked death to rescue men, women, and children from the atrocity of ethnic cleansing. To them I say... thank you.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from BtVS.

A/N: Yeah, I suck. But I finally hit on the right mix of premenstrual angst, self-loathing, and family drama to write this. So…YAY!

**The Dawning**

Chapter Three

Spike squatted just outside the open back door of the Summers' residence, watching with awe as his daughter managed to cram not one, but both her big toes into her mouth. Dawn reclined in her bright yellow bouncer, and when she wasn't batting at the pink butterfly plushie suspended from the arched handlebar, she practiced for a career in gymnastics by bending her tiny body in half to suck on her toes.

"I'm sorry I can't invite you in, Spike." Joyce moved around the kitchen, cleaning up the paraphernalia from the hot cocoa they'd shared. Spike had sat outside, right at the threshold, drinking his cocoa while she sat at the island, Dawn between them.

In her heart, Joyce wanted to believe Spike wouldn't hurt them, but that didn't stop the stutter of hesitation she felt upon finding him at the back door. A tiny tendril of fear. Fear of what he was, for what he was capable of doing. Forbidden from inviting in the vampire, she didn't dare take Dawn outside for him to hold either.

That wasn't her call. It was Buffy's.

"No worries, Joyce. I'm not here to pit you against your daughter."

Somehow that made her feel even worse. As if lines were drawn and sides chosen. She genuinely liked Spike and didn't want to be on any side but that of family. She wanted that family to include Spike, but as long as Buffy's disapproval hung like a dark cloud, a small wriggle of concern remained for Joyce.

She knew from experience there were plenty of bad people out there who were parents. Parenthood didn't translate into sainthood. Nor did did it have some magical ability to cleanse the soul. Or in this case, to gift one to a soulless monster.

"Have you spoken to Buffy lately?"

"Not since that night."

Joyce placed the last mug in the drying rack, rubbing her free hand across her brow where a sharp pain etched itself in a jagged line behind her eye. The one good thing to come out of the Initiative's attack was finding out about the tumor. Left untreated it could have killed her. Now, all she had to worry about was the occasional sharp pain brought on by stress or bright lights.

"She just needs some time," she assured him, trying to inject calm into her voice.

"Time," Spike snorted derisively. "That woman needs a heart."

"That's not fair," Joyce rejoined softly. She glanced at Spike, who squatted outside the door. The way he watched Dawn was almost predatory. Joyce didn't feel an ounce of fear for her grandbaby's safety, but the way he watched Dawn made her think he was just waiting for the opportunity to grab her up and run. And that thought very much terrified her. Another reason she hadn't taken a step outside with Dawn in her arms.

"You know what's not fair?" he snarled, thrusting both his hands in his hair, resting his elbows on his knees. He continued to stare at Dawn, not bothering to glance at Joyce as he spoke. "Not being able to hold my child. The only one I will _ever _have."

"I know. It's a hard situation." Joyce picked up the hand towel to dry her hands, more to have something to fuss with than actually needing it.

"Not much of a situation when it's one-sided."

"I think there's just a little more to it than her being stubborn."

"No, you're right. It's about her being ignorant and too stupid to learn." Spike looked stricken as soon as the words left his mouth. He cast a sideways glance towards Joyce, but couldn't quite meet her eyes. "Sorry, Mum. Know she's your daughter and all but…"

"She's driving you crazy?" Joyce felt a twist in her heart. When she was a kid, just dating Hank in college, she used to think that driving your partner crazy was part of being in love. That love should be a great drama played out on the stage of some grand sweeping romance. Now, heartbroken and divorced, she wasn't certain that love needed to be so grand. So loud and reckless. Maybe it could be gentle. Slow and strong. A bit like good tea instead of bitter coffee.

"Yeah. Somethin' like that." Spike looked sheepish, ashamed to be so caught up in baby-mama drama at his age.

But maybe not, Joyce mused. Spike certainly played to the crowd during his courtship with Drusilla. If anyone was the master of grand, sweeping passion and romance it was Spike.

"It's not about her being ignorant, you know? In some ways if that were true it'd be easier. An ignorant person can be taught to see reason – or in most cases a certain biased side. If she were ignorant of who and what you are then you could blind her, like Angel blinded her, but the truth is that she sees you. All of you."

"Then she's not looking very closely," he groused bitterly.

"But she is. You're just mad that's she choosing not to blind herself to the whole truth of who you are. She's not just seeing the man you are today, but the man you were yesterday. And…I think she's even trying to see ahead to the man you might one day become, but it's hard."

"I've changed. I've become something…something I can't even explain." Spike looked longingly at his daughter.

"I understand that, and I'm positive that Buffy understands it too. You aren't the man—or should I say monster—that you used to be."

"But it's still a part of me," Spike admitted.

"It is, and it's a hard thing to get past." Her pause was heavy in the room, the silence echoing around them. "You've killed a lot of people, Spike."

"I have." Spike's solemn gaze stayed locked on Dawn. More than admitting his sins to Joyce, he confessed them to his daughter.

"Lots of people like me," continued Joyce. "Like Giles. People who had families. Sons and daughters. Lovers and friends. People just living their lives. You killed them and left their loved ones to grieve."

He cast her a sideways glance from beneath the veil of his long lashes, looking at her for the first time since they began. The action – so startlingly handsome, so carelessly predatory – caused Joyce's hands to tighten on the towel, wringing it until her knuckles whitened. Seeing him crouched in the yellow kitchen light, with his duster pooled behind him and the shadows from the back yard grasping at his edges, shocked her with a moment of crystal clarity. More than a predator, Spike was a monster.

"I daresay you've even _hurt_ a lot of girls. Girls like Buffy. Maybe even younger." Her words were barely a whisper, choking in her throat as she breathed them out. Spike's face constricted, his Adam's apple working hard as if he was going to protest, but no words came.

"Maybe it wasn't even something you wanted. Maybe it was something forced on you, but it was something that _did _happen." Her pulse spiked; her breaths came in pants. It wasn't fear that gripped her, it was knowledge. A certain dread of understanding exactly what her daughter had been trying to say for the past weeks.

Spike planted his elbows on his bent knees, digging his long musician's fingers into his slicked-back hair, face hidden from her.

"Killed more than men and women too, I suspect. Children? Babies like Dawn?" Joyce still whispered, her agonized face pale.

"Yeah," Spike croaked. "I did those things. But…"

"You're trying to do better. You are doing better. Living like a man for the last year instead of a monster."

"But a year of being a man hardly erases three lifetimes of being a monster," Spike added, agonized at the truth of it.

Even knowing, finally understanding, somewhat if not truly, what a monster he had been, Joyce still wanted to comfort him. To give him hope in his darkest hour. A light to guide him to his redemption.

"That's where the future comes in. Buffy is trying to see through the past to the man you could be, but it takes more than turning a blind eye, being _ignorant _of what you were. It means forgiveness and acceptance."

Spike sat back on his heels, his hands cupped in his lap. He stared sightlessly at them, curling his fingers as if he could still feel the warm blood of his many victims slipping through them.

"That's really the worst part, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?" he cocked his head to look up at her.

"Well, if I understand it correctly, you can't even _ask _for forgiveness. Not really in the sense that you mean it. You haven't a soul. Forgiveness becomes meaningless if you don't feel regret for your actions."

Spike jolted forward off his heels, kneeling like a penitent in the doorway, his blue eyes intense as he stared up at Joyce.

"I do have a soul," he ground out, forceful and penetrating, even without his voice raised above a growl.

"There's my soul." He pointed a finger at Dawn, who had been unusually quiet. Her blue eyes, so like her daddy's, trained with equal intensity on him. A two week-old baby shouldn't be able to see clearly beyond their own hand, but neither should they be able to giggle like she could.

"I don't feel regret like a human but when I look at her I feel something. A tightness in my chest, an ache in my heart, and I know. _I know _with a hundred percent certainty I will _never _do anything to make her look at me with shame or hatred. She's my everything. For her I'd pull out my fangs, whip myself bloody, and drown myself in holy water before I'd _ever _hurt her. For her I'll be a man, even if her mother will never see me that way."

Silence hung in the air. Joyce had nothing to say. What was there to say after such a declaration of devotion?

Spike knelt in the doorway, breathing hard, loosened curls hanging over his eyes. After long moments, he pulled himself to standing, situating his duster around his shoulders.

"Spike, I—"

"S'kay, Mum. There's nothing to say. I know what I have to do."

"What's that?" Joyce's heart stuttered.

Spike pinned her with a stare, eyes filled with such a wealth of conviction that it took Joyce's breath away.

"What else, but see to my daughter? Buffy might try to push me away, but she's forgotten something important. I'm loyal to the bone. I'll always be here for Dawn. No matter what."

Joyce opened her mouth, but the expression on Spike's face stopped her. He cocked his head to the side, listening, his demeanor becoming cold and angry. Without another word he whirled around, disappearing into the shadows effortlessly.

"What was that about?" Joyce glanced at Dawn, who had gone back to cooing at her toes. Just then the front door opened and closed.

"Mom, I'm back!"

Buffy strode into the kitchen, unzipping her jacket. She smiled at her mother, eyes searching for Dawn. She came to a dead stop, staring at the open back door, her jacket half unzipped.

Instantly, her smile disappeared, replaced by the cold, hard indifference of the slayer. Only Joyce, her mother, could see the anger and pain beneath.

"He was here! You let him in?"

"No!" Joyce defended, feeling a little scared of her daughter.

"But he was here."

"He just wanted to see his daughter, Buffy. Have a heart. It's been two weeks and he hasn't even laid eyes on her."

Buffy's face hardened to artic levels. "That's right, Buffy the bitch doesn't have a heart."

"Buffy, I didn't say that!" Joyce gasped, tears glittering.

Raising her hand to ward her off, Buffy strode towards the open door, zipping her jacket back up. "It's okay, Mom. I can live without a heart as long as Dawn's safe."

"Buffy…" Joyce watched as the darkness claimed another one of her family. Heartbroken, she squatted next to Dawn, unbuckling her and pulling her out of her bouncer. Hugging her granddaughter close, she stood inside the doorway, peering out into the night.

"What are we going to do about your parents, little pumpkinbelly?"

Dawn looked at her with big, solemn eyes, then giggled.

8888

Buffy caught up with Spike in Restfield, tackling him from behind and taking him down to the ground. Spike flipped around, thrusting her off him in an action so sudden it caught her off guard.

As they kipped to their feet, it occurred to Buffy that it had been over a year since she and Spike had fought. Not since that afternoon on the college campus. Since then the only touches she'd received from Spike had been loving, caring ones.

She briefly wondered if she was ready for this. In the two weeks since giving birth to Dawn her body had strengthened, but there were occasional twinges in her abdomen that caught her off guard. It posed no problem for her nightly patrols. But Spike was no mere fledge.

Spike was a master. To defeat him, she needed to be at the top of her game. Something she wasn't even close to being after months of pregnancy.

His fist slammed into her face, and her cheekbone exploded with pain. It seemed the days of gentle touches were done. Back to what they did best. Anger. Fighting. Violence.

Buffy thought of the questionnaire she'd had to fill out at the doctor's office. The one that asked her if her partner abused her. She vividly remembered checking off _no_ in the box while watching Spike warily, wondering how it had come to be that a vampire, the wrong one at that, was standing at her side waiting to see a sonogram.

The memory made her heart hurt.

Buffy should have settled easily into their violent dance; instead she was caught off balance by it. Almost repelled by it.

That in itself roused her guilt. Her self-disgust.

She felt wrong. Not in the sense of how she felt when Giles robbed her of her strength for her Crucimentum, the wrongness of being trapped in a weakened body. Nor did she sense that Spike's punch wronged her. In a way, she felt she deserved his backlash of anger at her behavior.

No, she felt that she was in the wrong. And that only made her irrationally, irrevocably angry. Because she wasn't wrong. For once she was right. For once she was leading with her duty rather than her heart.

"You can't just come around whenever you want, Spike. You aren't welcome."

Spike toed off with her, his angry face thrust into hers. "I'll come around whenever I damn well please, Slayer. I've a right to see my daughter."

"No you don't! Disgusting vampires don't have rights."

"That may be so. But they don't have children either. So I'm thinkin' that makes me the exception to the rule."

"I don't like it. I don't want you around."

"I don't give sod all what you like. I don't dance to your tune anymore."

Rage danced across Buffy's eyes, as jagged and sharp as lightening. "Whose tune are you dancing to, Spike?"

Spike looked taken aback for a moment, before a cold, lecherous grin spread across his face. "Jealous, Buffy? Afraid I've got a bit of fluff on the side? Well, too bad." He ran his hand down his chest. "This body isn't yours to toy with anymore."

"You're a pig."

"I may be a pig, but I'm not the one who squeals when stuck."

The air reeked of copper and they both glanced down. She had her stake pressed above his heart, deep enough to make his blood run.

"I should dust you. Get rid of you for good. Bring some peace into my life," she sneered.

He pressed himself into her stake, looking deep into her eyes. "Do it!" he challenged. "Take me out of a world that has you in it. Take me out of a world were I starve on pig's blood though I have the ability to hunt. Do you know how much every day hurts just to exist? To want something so badly, but deny yourself because you want something else even more? Something that you can never, ever have? To strive for love only to have it thrown in your face? So, yeah, Buffy. Kill me. I'm begging you."

"Don't lie to me. I know you're out there hunting. Killing. It's disgusting. I'm disgusting for letting you touch me. For letting loose another monster on Sunnydale and not doing my duty."

"I'm not hunting! Why do you refuse to believe that?"

"Because you're a liar, Spike."

Angry, he thrust his face into hers. "I. Have. Never. Lied to you," he enunciated carefully.

She thrust him away, her pulse racing at his nearness. His eyes took on an evil, lecherous glint. "Not like you, Buffy. Pretty little liar, you are. Disgusted by my touch, are you? Bet you're dyin' to put your hot little hands all over my body. Come on, then. What's stoppin' you?"

"It's called self-control. Something you lack." His words, his scathing anger, deepened the ache in her heart. Even though she was disgusted by him, she still wanted him. Still craved him in a way that went deeper than sex. In a way she refused to admit to herself.

It should be unbelievable to her that he denied himself the pleasure of feasting on human blood only because of his love for her and Dawn, but she couldn't quite make herself believe it wasn't true.

Her defense rested on Spike's lack of control. Believing he could control his demon meant believing he had the self-control to live like a man. It meant starting to understand, if not forgive, his past because he was striving to be better.

Spike spun away from her, unearthing a tombstone and flinging it into a tree, where it shattered with a loud crack.

"You have no idea the extent of my self-control," he screamed, his face mottled with rage. Buffy had never seen such a thing on a vampire, hadn't even known it possible.

"You should have restrained yourself," she snarled in a forced whisper. "But you didn't. And I know you killed the rest of those men."

"They were a threat, Buffy. To you and our baby," he begged. He begged her to understand. Begged her to believe in him.

Buffy turned her face away. If she looked at him her conviction would falter. "There are a lot of threats in the world, Spike. You can't kill the human ones."

"I can if they're goin' to hurt my family!"

"No, you can't!" she screamed, her voice echoing through the ghostly statuary and decrepit tombs. Mist rose from the ground, transporting them outside of reality. A moment in time where only they existed. It was a desolate and lonely place, made even more so by each other's company. No longer were they as one. They were divided. Enemies facing off across invisible lines of anger, bitterness, and betrayal.

"So, Miss Perfect, you're trying to tell me that you wouldn't eliminate a human threat to our baby?"

"No, I wouldn't."

"You're so damned certain."

"I am certain. I had someone, someone really evil, literally under my foot. It would have taken nothing to crush her like a bug. No one would have known, except me. I knew it was wrong and I didn't do it. Couldn't do it. Because it's wrong," Buffy's voice broke.

Responsibility weighed her down, swamping her in the cold, black, inescapable mire of duty. Being a hero meant being something more than human. Something inhuman. A weapon without emotion. She'd learned long ago that her personal feeling had no place in her life. Duty, responsibility, morality were her cornerstones.

The millstones around her neck that were slowly crushing the life from her.

Once she had eschewed duty for personal gain. For love. And because of it the world had suffered. Now she had something in her life that was even greater than her love for Angel. Dawn was her everything. Unlike Angel, who she'd sacrificed to save the world, for Dawn Buffy _would _let the world burn.

That selfishness, the selfishness of choosing her child above all the other children in the world, meant that Buffy had to give up everything else that could give her comfort. It meant sacrifice.

It meant giving up Spike.

Having Dawn _and _Spike? That would tempt the fates to turn their inhuman, merciless eyes upon on her and punish her for _daring _to grab for happiness.

"No, you just left a mess for your watcher to clean up for you."

Her face a mask of ice, she spoke through frozen lips. "He was wrong."

"Self-righteous bint. That's all you are."

She struck; he countered. Around and around they went, their blows becoming more violent with every passing moment. Both of them were bloody, panting for air, nursing bruises.

Buffy lost her stake early on, and was subtly leading Spike towards a tree where she hoped to find a branch when she tripped on a chunk of tombstone that Spike had shattered. Spike leapt, following her down, struggling with her until he had her pinned beneath him.

Top of her game she was not.

His hard breaths cooled the sweat on her neck, reminding her how easily he could end her life. Instead, he pulled back to stare down at her, endless blue eyes glittering with emotion far deeper than hate.

"I love you, Buffy. I know you can't understand it or bloody well don't want to. But all I've ever wanted was for you to be my girl."

All of Buffy's rage and helplessness, her feelings of wrongness spiraled out of control. She couldn't accept his words. She just couldn't. There was more at stake than her desires. When it came to the world, to the safety of others, a slayer's heart had to be disregarded.

No matter how much she wanted to grasp at happiness with both hands.

"There's nothing clean and good in you. I'm not your girl. I could never be your girl," she raged.

The look that came over Spike's face froze her heart. It was like watching the death of love itself. Cold, breathless, then blank-eyed.

"I could kill you right now," Spike whispered in her ear, in a voice so sensually evil, she barely recognized it as his. "Drain you dry, take Dawn and run. Who'd stop me? Your watcher? Joyce? No one, that's who."

Her breath caught in her throat. She struggled against him, but he had her pinned with his full weight. He wrapped her hair around his wrist, keeping her neck taut against his lips.

"You'd kill your baby's mother?" she gasped, disgusted.

He shook her, his fangs sliding along her permeable skin. "Shut the fuck up! When are you going to learn, Buffy? This isn't just about Dawn. It never was. This is about you," his voice broke over the words, and Buffy felt her heart break with them. "I'd never kill you. Not now, not ever. Because I love you."

"Stop saying that!" she cried. "Soulless vampires can't love." She choked on the words, forcing herself to believe them.

He pulled away so he could look down on her face, a mirthless smile on his lips. "Doesn't matter what you believe, Buffy, because I'll never say those words to you again. So hold them tight, throw them away, do what you want. Just remember. I would have given you everything that I am if you'd only let me."

He pressed her into the ground as he leapt away. She scrambled to her feet, clutching a broken limb she found at the base of the tree. He was in her face as soon as she was standing, without so much as a flinch at her weapon

"It doesn't matter what I do or how I try. You'll never believe me. I wish I could leave you. But I never will." She opened her mouth, but he cut her off. "No! I'm not staying because of Dawn. Though God knows she's my reason for living. I'm staying for you. You're a fucking bitch, Buffy, but I'm yours always."

"If I'm such a bitch," her voice caught, eyes glittering with tears as she forced the words out of her ravaged throat, "if I'm such a hateful woman, then why? Why love me? How could you possibly love me?"

The words ended in a plea, her eyes wide and searching. His smile was soft and fleeting as he brushed the backs of his knuckles against her bruised cheek. "How can the depthless night not love the joyous day?"

Buffy's brows scrunched. "What?"

Spike dropped his hand, looking defeated in away that had nothing to do with his fatigue and physical injuries.

"Love can't be explained, Buffy. It's not something to be classified and catalogued. It just is."

Buffy jerked away from him. "Sounds like a fairytale, Spike. Happily ever after is a lie. I should know."

With that she turned on her heel and stomped away, never once looking back.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from BtVS.

Many thanks to ObscureBookWyrm, my wonderful beta.

**The Dawning**

Chapter Four

Xander took a breath, searched deep, and rallied his manhood.

When Buffy first came up pregnant with what he now affectionately thought of as her demon spawn, he had been unsettled, angry, and he'd admit it now, just a little bit disgusted.

But seeing Dawn, holding her….that was a whole other world of cool. She was…well what she wasn't was demon spawn. She wasn't disgusting, she was absolutely perfect. And Xander Harris was man enough to admit it.

What his manhood was having a hard time admitting to was the fact that there were other demons out there that weren't a threat to mankind. That the supernatural world was made up of just as many innocents as there were in the human world.

What Xander Harris was having a hard time wrapping his head around was that there were dozens of baby demons out there with no parents, no family, and no home, because some of his human compadres murdered and tortured them.

That was putting quite the dent in his personal shields of denial.

And, holy frijoles, Anya just wouldn't shut up about it. If she'd just not mention it he could forget about it. Ignore it, just like he ignored his dad getting drunk and slapping his mom around. Just like he ignored all the insults and abuses he suffered through grade school and most of high school.

Xander was a big believer in denial. It had treated him pretty good throughout his entire life, and in return he nurtured it on ignorance and bigotry.

But Anya just wouldn't _shut up. _

She had visited Spike's war orphanage in the sewers several times since they found out about it during the baby shower. They all did. Willow and Tara spent time every day teaching classes in science, math, and art, while Giles concentrated on language arts and history. Mrs. Summers had taken up collecting donations of blankets, toys, and food.

And Anya, it seemed, went a couple times a week to help the younger demons master their little demon monster skills like hiding their true faces behind an innocent guise. Also, since she was so well versed in many different types of demons, she talked to them about their heritage and culture, so they wouldn't forget where they came from, now they no longer had any family of their own.

Every time she came back from that hell-spawned place she would yammer on about it. About how cold it was down in the sewers. How dank and unhealthy. How crowded it was. How terrible it was that they never got to see the light anymore.

And _fuck, _if that didn't hit Xander hard.

Thoughts of those innocent demon children had been on his mind when he went out with his boss to do an inspection on the old Ravenstone mansion a few miles out of town. The sprawling estate hadn't seen an owner in three decades, and the city wanted it sold, preferably to someone who'd either tear it down or repair the blight. No one in Sunnydale had the resources to do either. It would be a miracle if it sold at auction, and if it did, it would be for a song.

Xander knew what needed to be done. He just didn't feel very comfortable about it.

He knocked on the reinforced steel door, the hollow thumps reverberating through the dank sewer. A slot door slid open, revealing wintery gray eyes and scaly skin. Xander cleared his throat, feeling foolish. Uttering pass phrases felt a little too Cold War for him to take seriously.

"I'm looking for paradise lost."

The slide door slammed shut, and after a few tense moments the large steel door creaked open. Deep bass flooded the sewer, making Xander's pulse jump. In the months since Spike opened Eden, he'd never once visited, having no desire to hang out with demons in any capacity.

Xander stepped inside, taking a quick, sweeping glance that revealed mostly shadows and a lot of naked skin. His eyes skipped back to the bouncer, recognizing Spike's right hand man, Dekker, who he'd met in passing a few times, the most memorable being when they fled to Spike's safe house right after the Initiative's attack on Buffy in the graveyard.

"Hey, I'm Xander. Buffy's friend."

If possible the unwelcoming look on the gray-skinned demon became more so. It was clear that Buffy was _persona non grata_ at Eden.

He had always associated himself with Buffy. At her heroic edges was where he defined the innate core of himself. He drew his identity from being Buffy's friend. By Dekker rejecting her, Xander felt rejected himself.

Disconcerted, Xander cast around for another way to identify himself, to ingratiate himself to this demon so he could get the information he needed.

"You know, Anyanka's boyfriend."

The words stuttered off his tongue. He rarely identified himself as such. As belonging to someone. While proprietary and foreign sounding, Xander found he liked it quite a bit. The idea that he belonged to a woman. Not platonically as he did to Willow and Buffy when he identified himself as being their friend, but romantically. To be possessed body and soul by a woman who accepted him for who he was.

"You're Anyanka's man?" The demon scanned him, black lips curling over yellow incisors.

Dekker's derisive tone forced Xander's chin up and his shoulders back. Xander was more than aware of his shortcomings. His father had expounded upon them nearly every day of his life until Xander had finally moved out of their home and into one of his own. He certainly didn't need a demon to take up the slack.

"You got a problem with that?"

Dekker winged a dark brow at him. "She can do better."

"No arguing that," Xander growled, and Dekker looked surprised at the admission. "But she chose me, and that's saying something, isn't it?"

Xander felt pride at his words. He couldn't dispute what Dekker said. Anya could most certainly do better than him, but she still chose him anyways. Still allowed him to walk beside her, hold her hand, wrap himself around her at night. Fuck, she let him love her. That made him her man and he would be damned if he'd let this demon spit on that.

Dekker crossed his arms, his features relaxing, almost accepting. "Yes it is. What is it that Anyanka's Chosen needs?"

Xander rubbed his palm on the back of his neck, now just feeling weird. He didn't really understand demons sometimes. Hell, most of the time.

"Is Spike around? I need to talk to him."

"The boss ain't here right now. But he should be in about an hour or so. You can wait. Enjoy the show." Dekker swept his hand towards the stage.

Xander's eyes followed the gesture, only to immediately drop and stare at the red carpeting between his feet.

"Are you _trying _to get me killed? Do you know what Anya did before she got turned into a human? If she finds out that I so much as looked, I'll wake up with bits missing. Very. Important. Bits."

Dekker's laughter rumbled over him. "You human males. So afraid of your mates. You should go sit over there with the other pussy-whipped human. He doesn't watch the floor show either."

Dekker motioned to a bench along the wall near the door. An impressive-looking man sat, leaning forward with his elbows braced on his thighs, hands clasped between his knees. Xander turned to see what he was staring at. An exotically beautiful woman flitted by, serving tall drinks the same carnelian color as her hair to a cluster of loud, cat-calling demons.

"You'll tell Spike I'm here when he gets in?"

Dekker nodded, and Xander reluctantly sat down on the bench, leaving a respectable three feet between him and the other man.

After a few minutes, Xander started to fidget, unable to remain unengaged for long.

"So, come here often?"

The man turned his pale, glacier blue eyes on him. His gaze swept over Xander, leaving a chill in its wake.

"Xander Harris," the man said impassively.

Xander's brows winged up. "Do I know you?"

"Name's Graham. I was…am…part of the Initiative. I was on Riley Finn's squad. It was mandatory that we knew all of the Slayer's associates on sight."

A ten-pound ball dropping on his chest couldn't have shocked Xander more. He shot out of the seat, hands fisted at his sides, shaking with rage.

"You fucking bastard!" Xander glanced around him, uncertain of what to do. He only knew that he wanted this man dead. For what he'd done to Buffy and Dawn. For how the Initiative scared his Anya. "Hey!" He took a step towards Dekker certain the bouncer didn't know who he'd let into his club.

Graham grabbed him by the wrist with steely fingers, cutting him off. In one yank, he pulled Xander off his feet and onto the bench next to him.

"Knock it off," Graham hissed.

"Hells no. I'm telling every demon in here who you are, then I'm gonna watch them rip you to shreds."

"They know," Graham ground out from between his straight, white teeth. "I'm here with Spike's permission."

"What?" Xander didn't know if he should be shocked or appalled or just plain stupefied.

"I did a favor for him, so I get a free pass at his club."

Acid bile burned a path up Xander's throat. "So, what? You can look at all the innocent demon girls you'd like to hurt?"

Graham shook him off with a disgusted look, returning his gaze to the beautiful pink demon. Xander tracked his gaze, before rounding on the man in fury.

"If you hurt her, Spike'll skin you alive, and I'll piss on your bloody body." Xander had never been so viciously bloodthirsty before, but all he could think about was Anya and all the different ways the Initiative could hurt her.

"I would never hurt Chantilly!" Graham turned on him, lips turned up in an impressive snarl, shocking Xander for a second time that night.

It sounded like the man actually cared…about a demon.

"What. The. Fuck, man?"

Graham scrubbed his face with both his hands, his shoulders slumping. Holding his face, he braced his elbows on his spread thighs.

"I don't fucking know!" the man confessed. "I just know I fucked up. It wasn't supposed to be like this. I didn't join the Army to be a part of something so fucking fucked up. Fucking demons! How was I supposed to know? What was I supposed to do? And Walsh and Patel and _Riley! _What was I supposed to do?"

Graham turned his agonized gaze to him and Xander's chest constricted. He'd never seen someone so haunted. So regretful.

"I fucking tried to do my duty. To be a solider. But what do you do when that conflicts with being a good man? I couldn't just sit back and watch. I had to save her. But I didn't. I was too late," Graham choked out.

"Jesus, man." Xander didn't know what to say. What could he say?

"Let's just sit here, okay, man? No more talking." Graham returned his tortured eyes to Chantilly, watching as some strange demon slapped her on the ass as she walked by.

Xander, in turn, watched Graham's profile, noting the squared, tensed jaw, hunched shoulders, and very large, painfully knotted fists.

"Yeah, okay, man. No talking."

8888

Until the moment in the graveyard when Spike declared that he wouldn't ever leave Buffy, a part of him had been harboring the thought of taking Dawn and running. Just leaving the Slayer, Sunnydale, and everything he'd built behind and starting a new life. Perhaps finding a woman who'd love him. Love his Bit.

But as he pressed Buffy into the ground, covering her body with his, breathing in her scent of honey and vanilla, he knew he'd never leave her. Until death. Either hers or his. His vow to her.

A brief, murderous thought crossed his mind in that moment. The idea that taking her life would free him from the leash she had him on. But the thought had sickened him even as it passed over his lips.

He could no easier take Buffy's life than he could Dawn's.

Forever, he was hers. It was a plague upon his nonexistent soul. A disease on his heart. Centuries from now, he doubted he would have recovered from loving Buffy Summers. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to. Because besides all the pain and suffering loving her had caused him, it was also the best thing to ever happen to him.

Before her, he was stagnant. A destructive monster who lived for the smash and bash in an unending string of nights that would have gone on for an eternity until he dusted. But Buffy had derailed him from that path, showing him a new way of life that enamored him from the get go.

He liked who he was now. A businessman, a contributor, a man responsible for a community that accepted him. He was someone more than a mere master of a few fledges. He was a leader.

He had Buffy and his child to thank for that. They were a catalyst for change in his life.

No, he wouldn't let his devastation at losing Buffy run him out of town. He wouldn't scarper away with his tail tucked in between his legs like a cowardly dog.

Men, real men, didn't run when things became hard. They stood strong in their conviction, accepted their responsibilities, and learned from their mistakes. And a man was what Spike was now. Not a monster. Never a monster.

Spike let himself through the hidden passage into his office to find Chrysie at his desk. It wasn't uncommon to see the techno-inclined demon accessing his computer, updating firewalls or installing some fancy new software.

The gorgeous demon had too many brains to be stripping, and Spike had told her so. Even offered to help her go to school. The woman belonged at MIT getting a degree to work in the tech world, making millions off developing some impossibly small gizmo to organize people's lives, not pottering around on his archaic PC.

As much as he enjoyed Chrysie's company, it wasn't her skills he needed at the moment. She wasn't the only demoness who worked for him with unique talents.

"Get out and send in Tayla." Spike wasn't normally terse with his girls, but at the moment he didn't give a flying fuck about a woman's, any woman's, feelings.

Chrysie tensed at the computer, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. She cast him an enigmatic look over her bare shoulder. She was dressed in a tiny bit of nothing in preparation for her next dance.

The girls' state of dress, or undress as it were, wasn't something that Spike usually registered. But the way Chrysie's eyes went from shocked to calculatingly seductive made Spike take notice of every little detail.

She curved her spine as she stood from his chair, pushing out a spectacularly rounded arse barely covered under a hot pink mini that contrasted nicely with her skin tone, the midnight blue shade of gloaming in Scotland.

Pivoting on her stripper heels, she rubbed her hands over her hips in a seduction meant to discretely lower her hemline, while only succeeding in lowering her bodice until the upper arcs of her lilac areolae showed.

Spike took an immediate and decisive step back, cocking his head to the side to study her. One black brow rose when he came to a satisfactory conclusion.

"Never realized you were the hero type," Spike stated, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Hero?" Chrysie smiled, hips dipping provocatively as she strolled towards him. She trailed one white painted nail along his forearm, smiling appreciatively as the muscle bunched under her touch. "What are you on about?"

Face impassive, Spike didn't move as he stared down at her. Her lilac-tinged eyes seemed wide and innocent, if it weren't for the haunted darkness behind them.

"Throwing yourself at the Big Bad to save the other girls from my evil, monstrous clutches."

He almost chuckled at the brief flicker of surprise on her beautiful face.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Spike backed out of her reach, glaring at her. "You really think so little of me?"

Chrysie dropped all pretenses, her face mutating from seductive to serious. "Everyone knows the Slayer…" Once glance at Spike's vicious face had her own expression shutting down into something dark and bitter. "Men have needs. It's only natural to want to see to them, especially when there's a stable of women eager to keep their jobs that can do just that."

"Natural?" Spike snarled.

Chrysie shrugged, not at all affected by his insulted demeanor. She gave him a cold, considering glance that made Spike feel as if all the respect he thought he'd gained had been nothing more than an illusion. "You _are_ a man."

"That I am, luv. But I'm not the sort of man who forces himself on a lady."

Chrysie lifted her chin, expression detached. "No ladies here. We aren't the sort that men find worthy of respect."

Spike canted forward on the balls of his feet, clipping out his words in a snarl. "Women should be treated with respect whatever their vocation."

"That may be something one of those pansy-ass moral types spout, while practicing something entirely different, mind you, but you _are_ evil." The silent question in her eyes begged him to dispute her.

"Not that kind of evil."

She eyed him closely, her face losing its hardness. "I don't think you're any kind of evil."

Spike shook his head, looking away from her in shame for the first time. "You'd be wrong, luv. I'm all kinds of evil. Just not that kind." He hesitated. "Not anymore, leastwise. Can't say I wouldn't have done different in the past."

His past, it seemed, kept coming around to bite him in the arse. One hundred and twenty years of living life unfettered by society's conventions had left him emotionally and morally stunted. He'd been nothing more than a pleasure-seeking adolescent, whose only concerns were the happiness and wellbeing of himself and Drusilla. Now, he was trying to live life as a man, responsible not only for a family, but an entire community, and experiencing some pretty serious growing pains while doing so.

Indicating the matter was closed, he crossed to his wet bar to pour himself a drink, speaking to Chrysie over his shoulder. "I wanted to talk to Tayla about some finances." Now that he'd fully committed to staying in Sunnydale, he needed to set up a deposit into Joyce's account to help care for the baby. He knew Buffy wouldn't take any sort of financial assistance from him, but Joyce was a pragmatic woman.

Tayla, he had found over the past few months, was a genius at numbers, despite being almost painfully shy. How the girl ended up in stripping he had no idea. But he also knew she had been a favorite of the last owner, which didn't bode well for her treatment in the past. She was the lowest earner in his lineup but he didn't have the heart to fire her. Instead he'd been slowly but surely transitioning her into the role of his accountant.

"Well, it's going to have to wait," Chrysie informed him. "There's some kid outside who wants to talk to you. Says his name is Xander."

Spike threw back a slug of expensive brandy, barely tasting it. His entire body hurt from his run-in with Buffy, not to mention his heart; the last thing he wanted was a confrontation with one of her little Scoobie snacks. Especially the most hostile one.

"Fine, whatever. Send him in."

Spike made himself busy by pouring himself two more drinks by the time Xander entered his office.

"Make it quick, boy. I don't feel like listening to your shite tonight," Spike told the kid without turning away from the bar.

"Who peed in your Wheaties?"

Spike growled, briefly entertaining the idea of telling him what a bitch his little teen dream slayer was, but he restrained himself, taking his drink to his desk to sit.

Xander watched him, making no move to speak. Finally, the boy crossed the leather armchair across the desk from Spike.

"Women trouble?" Xander ventured.

"What makes you say that?" Spike tossed back the last of his drink, eying the bottle he left behind at the wet bar.

"'Cause I figure women are the only creatures on earth to turn men inside out." Xander looked away, muttering. "In Anya's case that's literally a true statement."

"What do you know of it?"

"Remember when I didn't show up at the painting party? Yeah, Anya…well, let's say she gave me a lot of free time to think on the error of my ways."

Spike snorted. "That's all, boy? She cut you off from her juicy little quim? How you must've suffered," he sneered, a mean glint in his eye.

Xander shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Why do you keep doing that?"

"Doing what?"

"Calling me boy."

"It's what you are, innit?"

"You sound like Angel," Xander muttered, not meeting the vampire's eyes. He jumped out of his seat when Spike threw his crystal tumbler across the room, shattering it against the wall.

"I'm nothin' like that wanker!"

"You're sure as fuck acting like it," Xander shouted back. "Brooding. Angry. Feeling sorry for yourself in a dark room. All you need is a huge fucking fireplace and some boring, dusty book."

Spike leaned his knuckles on his smoke-glass desk, breathing heavily. He opened his mouth to speak, but words failed him. Slowly he sat back in his chair, Xander cautiously following suit.

"Bloody hell."

"Want to talk about it?" Xander offered.

"No."

They sat in silence. Finally, Xander crossed the room to the mini-fridge beneath the bar and pulled out two Coronas. He twisted the caps off, handing one to Spike.

"I think you've had enough of the hard stuff for tonight."

"Takes more than that for a vampire to get pissed," Spike said, accepting the beer. He downed most of the brew before placing the bottle on his desk. "She's never going to let me back into her life. Into Dawn's life. One mistake and I've lost everything. My woman. My child. All I've got left is this fucking club."

Xander looked down at his lap, picking at the label on his beer. "You didn't make a mistake."

Spike looked at him sharply. "What?"

Xander cleared his throat, looking up to meet the vampire's eyes straight on. "You didn't make a mistake. I can't say what it's like to have a kid, but I know if someone threatened Anya the way Riley did, I'd of killed him too."

Spike took another swig of beer, knee bouncing beneath his desk. "That wasn't my mistake. It was going after the others."

Xander contemplated Spike's words, finally shaking his head.

"So you're saying you would've hunted down those men?" Disbelief glinted in Spike's eye, but behind that, a tiny gleam of hope blossomed.

"No. I wouldn't have."

The hope died. Spike sighed, leaning back in his chair, rubbing his eyes.

Xander leaned forward, projecting an unfamiliar mien of seriousness. "I wouldn't have hunted them down, not because I wouldn't have wanted to, but because I don't have the skills to do it. I think if I was you, strong like you, I would've done it. Would've made sure they couldn't come back and hurt my girl."

Spike slowly dropped his hand to look at Xander. The boy…no, the man…looked him straight in the eye.

Uncomfortable with the small sense of comradery between them, Spike looked away to take another swig of his beer.

"So why are you here?"

Shaking off the heaviness in the room, Xander leaned forward in his chair. "How do you feel about owning property?"

Spike raised a brow and listened while the man outlined his plan.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from BtVS.

A/N: This chapter is short and not so sweet, but perhaps the most necessary chapter in this story.

As always, many thanks to ObscureBookWyrm.

**The Dawning**

Chapter Five

Buffy raced from Restfield like the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels, looking to make her a bloody mess. She barged into the house, not pausing to acknowledge her mother or Dawn, and bolted for the bathroom.

She cranked on the shower, tore off her clothes, and stepped under the spray before it fully warmed.

"I won't cry!" she hissed, trying to quell the burn of tears in her eyes. "I won't."

She picked up a wash rag, squeezed out some pomegranate exfoliating bath gel, and scrubbed. Hard.

What she felt went deeper than dirty. It felt unclean. The kind of unclean that came from sin. The sin of feeling for a man who wasn't a man, but a monster.

There was an aspect to her relationship with Spike that she hadn't been able to articulate to anyone, not even to her mother.

The constant feeling of being soiled. Of knowing that she let a man touch her, inside her, whose crimes were unimaginable. The same hands that had murdered children glided over her skin; his body, used to hurt other girls, had given her pleasure.

She tried to block it out. To get past it. But the imagery stayed with her. Haunted her.

A rapist. A murderer. The father of her child. Her lover.

How could she possibly come to terms with all the different truths that made up Spike?

By the time she finished, the water ran pink with her blood, her skin scraped raw.

Buffy dressed without looking at herself in the mirror. Following her nightly routine, she dried her hair and moisturized her skin. As she left the bathroom, she could hear Dawn fussing in her crib. Bypassing her room, she entered the nursery.

"Hey, baby." Buffy smiled down at Dawn. Her daughter smiled back, lifting her feet to show her mother her toes, distressingly covered by her footsie pajamas.

Buffy grabbed Dawn's foot, wiggling it gently. "Don't worry, baby. You'll see them again tomorrow." Buffy picked Dawn up and sat down in the rocking chair. When Dawn nuzzled Buffy's chest, she grabbed her Boppy, positioning it under her arm so she could feed her baby.

The act of nursing Dawn in the half-light of the nursery calmed Buffy in a way that her shower hadn't. It gave her a sense of peace that she'd never experienced in all her life, most especially after her calling. This was her reason for living. Buffy didn't need anything other than Dawn's love. She could go the last few years of her short, violent life with just this. She didn't need the love of a vampire.

Truly, she didn't.

"Buffy." She looked up to see her mother standing in the doorway, haloed in the light from the hall. "Xander's here."

Buffy frowned, standing up to lay the now-sleeping Dawn in her crib. She had passed hours holding her child, and hadn't even realized it. She brushed her fingertips across Dawn's downy cheek, feeling all her love for her child swelling in her heart.

"Why is he here this late? Has something happened?" Buffy asked as she passed her mother in the hall.

"I'm not sure."

Buffy nodded, hurrying down the stairs. Xander waited for her in the den, standing near the fireplace mantel, fiddling with the many picture frames scattered on top. When she entered the room, he set down the frame he held, nearly toppling over a few more on the cluttered mantel.

She scurried over, helping him to set them aright as she spoke. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

Xander looked surprised. "Yeah. Of course." His laugh sounded a bit off, and Buffy cocked her head to examine him closely. He didn't look injured, and she doubted he'd come to commiserate if he'd fought with Anya.

"Then why are you here?"

Xander shuffled his weight, shoving his hands into the front pocket of his ill-fitting, low-slung blue jeans. The man just could not shop for himself. Anya should really take him in hand, Buffy thought briefly with a small smile.

"I just wanted…" Xander shrugged.

Confused, Buffy sank down in the armchair next to the couch. "Just wanted what?" Buffy asked, afraid of the answer. Buffy just couldn't imagine a scenario where Xander's presence in her house this late at night, acting weirdly, was in any way of the good.

Xander sank into the couch, then shot to standing, nearly tipping over the empty mug of tea Joyce had left out. He moved around the coffee table, pacing with restless energy.

Buffy swallowed hard.

"I just came from Spike's."

Buffy blinked, utterly poleaxed.

"W-what?" She didn't understand.

"He's just." Xander dragged his hand through his hair. "God, Buffy. He's really torn up about this thing between you two."

"Torn up?"

"You're mad that he killed those soldiers. And, yeah, that's bad. But Buffy, can you really blame him? I mean, give the guy a break!" Xander threw up his hands, casting her a chastising look. All she could think about was her mother telling her to have a heart. That was her, heartless Buffy.

She hopped up from her seat, hands on her hips. "I get it, okay. Everyone is all for Spike. Since I'm the Slayer, my story is probably being written down somewhere as we speak and even the readers are all, 'rah, rah, Spike!'" She threw up her hands, pacing to the fireplace.

Xander choked, trying to hide his laugh behind his hand, breaking the tension.

Buffy jerked to a stop in the middle of the living room. "What? Too much?"

"A little. I mean, ego much? Your story's being written down as we speak…"

"Shut up! It's called dramatic license!"

"I think it's called a rant. But all kidding aside, don't you think you're taking this thing with Spike a little too far?" He stepped closer, holding his hand out.

Buffy moved away, heart aching at the thought of being touched when she felt so unworthy of affection. "Right. I'm the bitch and Spike's the loving father figure who's been wronged by said bitch."

"Buffy, I never said that!"

"You don't have to. Gawd, Xander, you're defending Spike. Spike! I _must _be in the wrong, right?" She turned away, blinking back her tears. Duty, responsibility, self-sacrifice. All those big, mature words. They all came down to one thing. Suckage.

Xander shifted as the edges of a trap formed around him. "I definitely didn't say that."

"That's why you're here, isn't it? To lead the Bad Buffy sing-a-long." She drifted to the mantel, picking up the photo Xander had been looking at when she walked in. Until a few weeks ago, the picture of her eight-year-old self in ice-skates had held pride of place. Now, a photo of Buffy sitting in her rocking chair, Dawn in her lap, took center. She leaned closer, noticing how her smile in the photo looked a little crooked. A little sad.

Xander's sawdust and sunshine scent enfolded her from behind. She allowed him to rub his palms over her arms, trying to draw comfort and failing. "It's not about right or wrong. I'm just trying to understand what the problem is. Spike's changed, even you can't say differently."

"He murdered those men, Xander," she whispered.

"I can't say that if someone pointed a gun at Anya I would react differently." Xander's voice had a hard edge she didn't like. Stepping away, she shook him off.

"Probably not. But then would you go and hunt the rest of the squad down and murder them in cold blood?"

Xander shifted, and Buffy went on the attack. "How'd you feel if you killed someone, Xander?"

His sigh was chest deep and somehow disappointed. "I'd feel bad, but…"

"That's the difference," she snapped, not wanting to hear whatever justifications he'd form – uncertain if she'd stay strong in her convictions if she did. "You'd feel bad. Spike doesn't. He can't, because he doesn't have a soul."

"Spike only killed those guys because they attacked you and Dawn." Xander's voice rose.

"Murder is a symptom of his soullessness." Buffy's voice rose to match.

Xander angled his head, looking down at her from his greater height. "His soullessness doesn't stop him from loving you, Buffy." The look in his eye held certainty as he spoke.

"Fine." She flung up her hands, feeling sick when he flinched. "You make the argument that the state of his soul doesn't matter." She advanced on him, poking him as he backed away. "But does he truly feel regret? Remorse? How many people has he killed over the years, Xander? Men, women, and children. If I piled the bodies on top of each other would it be high enough to climb to heaven?" She looked him square in the eye, when she asked, "Think we'd find William's soul there?"

Xander swallowed, looking away. "Talk about dramatic license," he muttered. His derision only gave her the strength she needed to go on.

"I mean, he only stopped killing a year ago. Before that he murdered at _least _one human a night for over a hundred years. And we both know it's more than that. But because he thinks he loves me I should forgive him for that? Forgive him even though he hasn't a soul?" Buffy's voice rose to a shriek near the end, but only because the words came to close to her true desires. The desire to forgive and forget and live on.

"I don't think the soul matters that much, do you, Buffy?" Xander asked, voice lowered to a soothing cadence.

Buffy blinked. Xander – Mr. All Vampires Deserve A Good Staking – did not just say that. What was happening? Had the world suddenly gone wonky?

"He can't regret what he did!" This time she did shriek, and Xander flinched away.

"Buffy, is everything okay down there?" Joyce called from the stairs. Buffy jolted back to herself.

"Yeah, Mom. Sorry. We'll keep it down."

"Okay, if you're sure?" Joyce didn't sound so sure herself.

"I'm sure. Go on to bed."

Xander and Buffy stood in the den; the only sounds were their breathing and the ticking of the wall clock.

"I'm thinking lots of people with souls don't regret their evil acts," Xander finally said. "Patel sure didn't."

Buffy rubbed her hand over her face, pausing to press her fingers to her eyes, massaging away a headache. The Initiative labs flashed through her mind. All that evil stewing down in the bowels of that human-spawned hellhole. It made her sick.

"So I should just forgive him and move on, knowing he could give a flying fig about the people he's hurt over the decades? Don't you think I deserve better than a man you can compare on par with one of the worst human beings I've ever had the displeasure of meeting?"

He settled a big hand on her shoulder. "I'm just saying that a soul doesn't really matter. Not when it comes to love."

"Okay, sure. Love makes it so the soul doesn't matter. Do you think that Dr. Patel never loved anyone? Do you think Hitler knew the true meaning of love? If he did, do you think it truly matters? Should I fuck Hitler if he says he loves me?"

Xander recoiled at her harsh language. He eyed her a moment, before saying, "Buffy, even at his worst Spike is no Hitler."

"You're right," she snapped. "Spike didn't discriminate in who he killed. White, black, Jew. Young or old. That totally makes him better."

"Maybe he didn't!" Xander yelled, startling Buffy. Hell, startling himself. "You're right. He's killed a lot of people. Blood is on his hands, oceans of it. But he's changed. Don't you think that means something?"

Buffy eyed him, taking in the judgment stamped on his darkened face.

"Oh." She rocked back on her heels at her sudden conclusion. "I know what you're thinking. I forgave Angel because I loved him."

Xander dropped his eyes to his scuffed work boots, and Buffy knew she was right. The ache in her heart spread, and she pressed her palm to the hollow between her breasts, wondering if the pain she felt was her heart dying.

"A part of me will always love him," she whispered. "But Xander, I was a teenager. I didn't think about what it meant to love a killer. I pushed it away, pushed it down, ignored it until it was too late. Ignored his past. His nature. Everything that he was, just so I could love him. I can't do that again, Xander. I just can't." Her voice broke, her expression ragged. Xander felt her agony all the way into his soul. He moved closer, holding out his arms, but she jerked away, unable to take the comfort he offered.

"If Angel anchored his soul tomorrow," she continued. "I don't think I could be with him either. And not just because I don't love him anymore. But because he's ten times the killer that Spike ever was. But the difference between them _is_ the soul. Angel feels true remorse for his past. Spike can't. He feels no regret, no remorse. If I were to ask him about the hundreds of thousands of people he's killed, he'd tell me that he feels bad about it only because _I _feel bad about it. And maybe that's a start towards something, but is it enough? How can I possibly forgive someone when they feel no regret? And why does it always come down to my judgment? My forgiveness? Who says I have the power to grant true absolution?"

Xander stared at her for long moments, internal war darkening his normally mischievous eyes. Finally, he seemed to come to terms with something painful and life altering. "I'm pretty sure Anya killed more people than Spike. She caused revolutions and spread plagues. She didn't kill to eat like Spike. She killed because she could, because it was amusing. I know all this, but I love her."

"But she's human now, Xander. She has a soul."

He swallowed loudly, then looked at her with a hard glint in his eyes. "Buffy, Anya may have a soul, but she doesn't feel an ounce of regret for any of it."

The words hung between them, the implication sinking into their consciousness.

He cupped her face in his large hands, leaning his brow against hers. "It's not about granting absolution, Buffy. It's about coming to terms with what _you _can live with."

"How?" she whispered.

"I can't tell you that. For me, loving Anya is enough. But I'm not a hero. I'm not you. You're the only who can decide to live in fear of the future or in hope of it."

Buffy couldn't blink back the tears any longer. They ran hot down her cheeks. "How can I? What does it mean that he's changed because he _thinks _he's in love? What happens when he decides he isn't in love anymore?"

The true question was left unasked. What happened when Spike went back to killing and she had to stake him?

He wrapped one arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his chest. "Do you really believe that he only _thinks _he's in love with you?" Xander whispered against her hot cheek. "You don't believe, even a little, that he loves you, for real and for true?"

Buffy shrugged him off, wiping her tears so she didn't have to look at him. She couldn't answer that without lying.

"Don't you love him just a little?" Xander closed the distance she made between them, refusing to be pushed away.

Buffy choked on the air that was lodged beneath her heart. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.

"Don't you miss him?" Xander pushed.

Buffy broke.

"I miss him so much," she sobbed, tears rolling messily down her face. "I miss the way he tucks my hair behind my ear. The way he presses his hand to my lower back when we walk. I miss having him in my bed. I miss the way he looks at me like I'm the most precious thing on this earth, then backs it up with every word and action.

"I miss being loved by him. Because his love is so special. It's without judgment or reservation. Not like my love, where I erect uncrossable boundaries and make impossible demands. I can't love like him because I'm broken. I've been broken for a long time. It makes me so mad because I want him so badly. Without judgment. Without reservation.

"Instead I did what I was supposed to do, and pushed him away. No! Not pushed. Fucking threw him away. I did my _DUTY _and now he doesn't love me, Xander. Will _never_ love me. I broke the unbreakable. Go me. The heartless, bitch queen slayer at her best. Ripping, tearing, killing…and destroying! It's all I'm good for."

She moved into him, fisting her hands into his shirt to keep herself upright.

"So convince me that I'm wrong. Please. I'm begging you!" Her legs fell out from under her, and Xander grabbed her by the arms. Together they collapsed to their knees, Buffy bowed beneath the weight of her grief, begging for absolution from what seemed to be her only friend. "Please, convince me…'cause…don't you see…I love him. I truly do."

"Oh, Buffy." Xander wrapped his arms around her frail, shuddering shoulders, pulling her deeply into his chest. She pressed her wet face into his throat, blowing hot breaths onto his neck.

"So convince me, Xander. Convince me that loving him is the right thing. Convince me that I won't regret loving him, that he'll never betray me. Love conquers all, right? _Right?_" she shook him, nearly shrieking. "So convince me and make it alright to love a man who's so drenched in the blood of his victims that it literally courses through his veins. Convince me to throw away my duty, my calling. Convince me that my family and friends are safe for loving him." She shuddered, her body trembling with the weight of her agony.

"Forgive me for loving him. Please. Forgive me."

Bereft of words, all Xander could do was hold on as she sobbed out all the pain and sorrow that had welled up inside her since the day she'd turned her only true love away.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from BtVS.

Spoilers: _Who Are You?_

Warning: This chapter is a little bit raunchy. Bad words and sex acts abound.

The Dawning

Chapter Six

"Buffy, are you going out?"

Faith looked over her tanned shoulder to Joyce. The older woman looked a bit frazzled after the battle royale that had occurred downstairs. Her boney hand clutched the lapels of her faded flowered housecoat together, her face pale and disapproving.

"Thought I'd get a little post-battle celebration in down at the Bronze. Shake my boo-tang. You know?"

Faith turned back to the mirror. Fresh from the shower, she had blown out Buffy's blonde hair to skandom levels of height, and streaked it black with mascara. She had liberally applied the charcoal-tone spectrum of Buffy's eye shadow pack to create what she thought of as her 'looking to get laid nasty' smokin' hot look.

While watching Joyce through the reflection in the mirror she applied a nearly untouched lipstick, harlot-red, to her lips.

"Shall I watch Dawn then?" Joyce's lips firmed until they couldn't be seen. Faith wasn't familiar with maternal disapproval, but she definitely understood sarcasm. What she didn't understand was who the hell was Dawn, and why should Buffy care about her?

"Um, yeah," Faith drawled in Buffy's prissy valley girl voice. See, sarcasm, totally had a handle on it, even after a year and half-long coma.

"Buffy, do you really think it's appropriate for you to…" Joyce waved a hand towards Faith's slut attire of ass-hugging, black leather pants and scanty, backless blouse.

"Look smokin' hot?"

If Joyce's lips thinned any further she'd be in danger of biting them off and swallowing them.

"I just went through, like, a harrowing experience, you know? I mean, I just beat my sister into the floor. The same sister who I betrayed, stabbed, and threw off a roof all to save the love of my life. Bros before hoes and all that. I think I'm entitled to a little pick-me-up, don't you, Jo––uh, Mom?"

"You're not going to be picking up any men, are you, Buffy?" Joyce rubbed her brow. "I hardly think that'd be fair to Spike."

"Spike?" Faith mouthed. Buffy was dating a guy named Spike? Wow, who knew the tight-ass had it in her?

"Spike and I aren't together," Faith took a chance, throwing down the lipstick. "I can bang any guy I like. I'm an adult, aren't I?" Faith challenged.

"Yes, of course." Face withdrawn, Joyce turned to leave. "Could you, at least, nurse Dawn before you go out to 'bang' some strange man?" Joyce walked out of the bathroom without a second glance.

Faith dropped the mascara wand she had picked up to apply more streaks to her hair. It fell into the sink with a muffled clatter.

"Nurse?" she mouthed to her reflection. She tugged her blouse away from her collarbone, eyes dropping to her tits swelling over the lacy black bra she'd chosen. She never really took notice of Buffy's tits, but Faith did know her sister slayer was tight in more places than just up her ass. Come to think of it –– Faith twisted in the mirror to look at her rounded butt –– the bitch did look more lush than Faith remembered.

In a daze, she walked out of the bathroom, turning towards the soft blue light emanating from a room she'd never been in. She peered through the doorway, seeing the vague outline of a crib and changing station in the muted light of the mobile.

A small snuffling sound came from the crib and Faith's (Buffy's) boobs throbbed. Faith cupped her breasts, noticing how hard and tender they were beneath her palms.

"What. The. Fuck?"

Buffy had a brat? Straight-laced, in love until I die with a souled up the ass vampire, Buffy? That just couldn't be true.

Faith stepped forward, and slammed into an invisible barrier. Inside the room, symbols painted on the walls and ceiling glowed silver. Shocked, Faith backed up a step.

She pressed a trembling hand into the invisible barrier. Beneath her fingertips it felt as solid as a steel wall.

"Warded," she breathed.

Rocked to her core, and not sure why, she bounded down the stairs. Joyce stood in the archway leading to the den, surveying the damage the fight between Faith and Buffy had caused.

She glanced up as Faith landed in the foyer next to her.

"Thank God Faith didn't make it up the stairs to Dawn."

Faith jerked up short, blinking at Joyce.

"Yeah," she said slowly. "Good thing those wards are on the nursery."

Joyce frowned, glancing up the stairs. "I suppose. But they're meant to keep out evil, not a misguided young girl."

_Evil. _The wards kept out _evil._

Faith's fingertips tingled where they had touched the wall. She watched, chest tight, mouth dry, as Joyce surveyed the destroyed den. "You think she'd hurt a baby?"

Joyce opened her mouth to speak, before changing her mind, shaking her head. "Very misguided," Joyce muttered before heading to the kitchen.

Faith staggered, catching herself on the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. Hands sweaty, heart in her throat, she stared down at her stolen Jimmy Choo sexy kitten heels, wiggling pink painted toes that weren't hers.

"I'm not evil," she whispered. "I wouldn't hurt a baby."

In the foyer mirror she caught sight of herself in her stolen body. Blonde hair blown out and shiny red lips. With the dark eye shadow, Buffy's eyes looked more brown than green. More like Faith's eyes. Harder. Meaner. Uglier.

Taking a deep breath through her nose, Faith straightened, throwing her shoulders back. "Fuck 'em," she muttered, regaining her equilibrium as she stalked out of the house to find herself a real bad time.

8888

Holy shit! William the Bloody. She had the deets on him, of course, from when he blew into town and tore up the Magic Shop, somehow driving a sharp-ass stake into B and Angel's star-crossed hurl-fest, but she'd never met the guy.

And what an effing shame that was. The guy was smoking hot with an edge of wickedness that never failed to make her panties wet. Faith had a type and the leather-wearing, cig-smoking, whiskey-pounding vampire was definitely hitting all her buttons.

With the music thudding hard in the background and the smell of sweat and sex wafting from the dance floor of the Bronze, Faith felt a little lightheaded, and being tucked away beneath the stairwell with a vampire that oozed bad-wrong ideas wasn't helping.

He was also staring at her with an intense kind of gaze that made Faith think he knew all her secrets.

All of Buffy's secrets.

Shit! Was Queen B, paragon of all that's right and virtuous, banging the bad boy vampire? Joyce had said as much, but looking at him, Faith just couldn't fathom it. Buffy was all into that 'make love not fuck for fun' bullshit.

Nobody got into her lady garden unless they practically proposed marriage.

And this guy, standing before her, all sex and sin, was not the make love type. He definitely put the _fuck_ in _fucking_.

Did the dude even have a soul?

Faith did a covert scan and came up with a resounding no. She stared at the obvious bulge between his legs. No way in hell did this guy have a soul.

And no way was B banging him. Not with her fatal allergy to having a good time.

"How's Dawn? You leave her with your mum? _Again._"

Woah. Hello, disapproval. What was this guy talking about?

Brain still frazzled by the promise beneath his skin tight jeans, Faith muttered an absentminded, "Huh?"

Big effing mistake.

William the Bloody leaned in close, burning blue eyes flashing murder and blowing streams of smoke from his nostrils.

"Know you don't like acknowledgin' Dawn as ours, but survey says she is. I won't have you mistreatin' her because I'm her father."

Woah, woah, woah.

Faith wasn't ignorant of the mystical power of befuddlement and enchantment the pussy had on the male gender, but there was no way in hell Buffy had convinced this guy he was the father of her baby.

First, Buffy would have had to have sex with him.

Second, he was a vampire. Hello, shooting the cold dead seed down there.

Third, Buffy would have had to have sex. With him!

Did an apocalypse happen while she was in a coma?

Nothing he said was going to convince her that Buffy undid the triple lock that bolted her legs together, especially for this guy. Maybe he was delusional? Chasing after something he couldn't have.

Time to commence with the fuckery.

She leaned in close, spreading her hand in the center of his chest, sliding it up to toy with the soft hair at his nape.

Holy hell, he was solid. Sex on a stick and she wanted a lick.

"Can't pick up a cock to ride for the night with a baby on my hip."

Fury like she'd never seen before etched itself over his face, leeching away all his handsomeness and replacing it with ugly predator features. He didn't vamp, but his teeth shot longer, gleamed whiter, his brow became more prominent, cheekbones going razor sharp.

Heart suddenly surging like a freight train in her throat, she tried to ease away, but his big hand landed on her rounded hip, the beginning tips of his claws digging through the leather and into her flesh.

Certain he was on the verge of striking, she pushed at his hand, angling her throat away. Something dark flickered in his eyes and he peeled back his lips in a smile, an ugly showing of teeth meant to frighten instead of reassure.

"Baby, if you got an itch to scratch, you should've said. You might be a grade A bitch, but that wouldn't stop me from shaggin' your lush little body into the ground."

Faith's breath caught in her chest. Holy shit! She didn't know whether to flee or fuck! Instinctively, she knew sex with him would be the kind of filthy, thigh-quaking, bed-breaking extravaganza she craved to the very depths of her soul. The kind that would leave her soft and sated and boneless with euphoria. For a few minutes she'd breach Nirvana and drift into a place where it didn't hurt anymore. Pain and remorse wouldn't touch her, the anger would drain away, and there'd be nothing.

Wicked, perfect nothing.

That's when he'd strike. Drain her dry while she was lost in the sea of afterglow. The prize was almost worth the price.

Almost.

But she was a survivor. Always had been. It wasn't something that could be turned off, no matter how much she might want it. Truth of the matter, she didn't have the brass balls to take that last gasp. Not without a fight.

Slithering in close, she angled her slut-red lips up to his, smiling at the hunger etched into the hard lines of his body. "I could have anyone, Spike, even you. I could ride you at a gallop until your legs buckled and your eyes rolled up. I got muscles you've never dreamed up. I could squeeze you until you popped like warm champagne and you'd beg me to hurt you just a little bit more. But I won't. Do you know why?" Licking her glossy lips, she didn't give him a chance to reply. "'Cause it'd be wrong."

Spike cocked his head to the side, a bird of prey sighting its quarry. Faith felt a shudder of unease that she'd overplayed her hand.

Wrapping his strong arm around her waist, yanking her into him with enough force the air huffed from her lungs, he lashed their bodies together. Leaning in, lips brushing the sensitive whorls of her ear, he spoke.

"Baby, we did that last night. If you want to ride me again, you won't hear me arguin', but I'd rather you be flat on your back, my face buried in your sweet-tasting quim."

Faith's whole world tilted.

B really was bagging this guy. This unsoulled, unleashed, evil-to-the-bone, vampire. And apparently she was doing it nightly, every wicked way possible, and maybe some impossible ways too.

The lucky cunt! She always got everything. The good watcher. The loyal friends. A loving family. And men. Men who effing _adored _her.

It wasn't fair. The perfect bitch got it all, and Faith had nothing. No home, no father, no man. Well, fuck that.

Want, take, have.

"Let's go back to my crypt, pussy cat."

Faith drew back, looking him in the eye. His face was pure lust, but it was the coldness in his eyes that reassured her. The same coldness had been present in all her hook-ups and it tickled her ass that little miss 'I make love' had a similar sitch.

"Got that new crop you wanted so much." He slid his hand up her back, weaving his fingers through her hair to hold her tight. "Put you in chains and spank that little arse of yours the way you like it."

Faith's breath hitched. _Fuck her._ That was hot.

Her smile was slow and not in the least bit sweet. "Wicked." The smile dropped, all seriousness. "No chains this time."

He nodded, but she had the distinct feeling he didn't agree, and even though she knew her flight instincts were screaming bloody murder, her fuck ones were too loud to ignore.

8888

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Spike's face was exactly where he said it'd be, his tongue doing filthy wicked things, and Faith was unlocking the first door to paradise.

She was spread out naked on his lush bed, the red velvet duvet tickling her sensitized skin. She white-knuckled his wrought iron headboard, the chains threaded through the metal and bolted to the stone wall behind the bed jangling with her every shudder and arch as Spike's tongue glided over her clit.

He wanted to put her wrists in those chains, but she adamantly refused. She didn't know what games he and Buffy played, but no way was she going to get trussed up. She trusted William the Bloody as far as she could spit.

Her orgasm hit and a scream ripped from her raw throat.

As her shudders started to die, Spike slid up her body, his lean hips hard between her thighs. Still dressed in jeans and tee, the stiff fabric abrading her skin, setting her on fire.

Manacling her wrists above her head with his long, impossibly strong fingers, he stretched her body out, sacrificial and vulnerable, tripping all her sensors. She opened her mouth to tell him to fuck off, but he rocked against her, his denim-covered cock scraping her clit.

She undulated beneath him, hissing and yowling like a cat in heat. Levering her mouth up, she tried to steal a tongue-twisting kiss. Angling away, he buried his face in her hair, stretching her arms higher, until she felt the stretch in her shoulders and her tits arched into his chest.

"Never goin'ta kiss you, bitch," he growled in her ear.

Anger rolled through her too late. Another orgasm struck, rendering her helpless as she writhed. Through the waves of pleasure, she heard the clank of chains and the kiss of cold iron around her wrists.

Mid-orgasm he leapt off her, taking away the delicious thrust and push of his body against hers. The ecstasy receded, and she yanked on the chains, feeling their bite on her wrists and the burn in her shoulders.

"Asshole! Let me go."

Across the room, Spike guzzled a bottle of cheap rotgut. He swished it like mouthwash, spitting it onto the dirt floor. He poured the last of the whiskey into his cupped hand, using it to scrub his mouth and chin clean of her cum.

"Asshole," she hissed again. He thought she was dirty? He was the goddamn vampire.

Ignoring her, he tore off his shirt, dropping it to the floor. His hands hovered over his fly, a look of supreme disgust on his face.

She looked at his crotch, heat edging her cheeks. Even from the bed she could see the shimmer of her cum on his jeans.

He quickly stripped them off, wadding them up with his tee and tossing them into the sewer. Faith watched the show, riveted at the limp piece of flesh between his legs.

She'd be humiliated if she didn't know the truth. Buffy made him limp, not her.

"See why I was on the hunt for cock? Limp dick seems to be an epidemic among you vampires."

Angel had rejected her as well. All because of Buffy.

Buffy. Buffy. Buffy.

Well, now she had her revenge. Too bad B would never know her post-baby body made Spike –– the vampire with a stake in his pants –– as limp as an alcoholic, coked-out, over-the-hill rocker.

The vampire pulled clothes from a broken-down bureau that listed to the side, yanking them on without a glance in her direction. Fully dressed, he pulled out a cell phone, hitting speed dial. While he waited for it to connect he lit up a cig.

Faith could only imagine who he was calling. A slayer was big money. He could potentially make millions off her.

Furious, and a little bit terrified, she went wild, screaming and thrashing in the bed.

Spike dropped the phone on the bureau, the cig on the dirt floor, and strode over to her. Ready, she lashed out with her free leg, eager to kick him hard enough to snap some ribs. He dodged to the side with fluid grace, batting down her foot. He rose up, pile-driving one knee into the center of her chest.

Air rushed out of her lungs in a whoosh, agony ripping around her ribs. Before she could suck air back into her burning lungs, something round and rubbery was thrust between her teeth.

A ball gag! Mother effer. She was going to murder his ass dead and shit on his ashes.

He left her muffled, still straining against the chains, to pick up the phone. The entire time he didn't even glance at her.

"You there, Watcher?"

He paused to listen, and Faith stilled. Why was he calling Giles? Threats? Ransom?

"I got Buffy's body here, but some other bitch is in residence. Want to tell me what's goin' on?"

The world dropped out from under Faith's feet. He knew she wasn't Buffy. He knew and he wasn't limp for Buffy. He was limp for her.

Once again Buffy got everything. The watcher, the friends, the family, and the man who _effing_ adored her.

Faith threw back her head and howled through the gag.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from BtVS.

Serious thanks to ObscureBookWyrm. She's always teaching me something new.

**The Dawning**

Chapter Seven

The dick-shit vampire was pacing the room in a dizzying Gordian knot, lighting up one cig after another until a fog of smoke hung thick in the room.

Still chained and gagged, Faith watched him with hard eyes, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened.

She thought the vampire hated Buffy, but he knew her well enough to know that Faith wasn't her. When, during their flirtation, did he figure it out? Had he known from the beginning or had she slipped in some way? Had it been the moment he cocked his head and she knew she'd overplayed her hand? Or had it been from the very beginning when she feigned disinterest in his and Buffy's baby?

It didn't matter, because the result was just the same. She played straight into his sly hands. Even as he was getting her off, he was thinking about locking her down. _Fuck her_. The best sex she'd ever had, and it'd all been a play to catch her off guard so he could take her unawares.

Take her in a way that wouldn't leave a bruise on beautiful, perfect Buffy.

Her ego would like to think that he didn't engage her in battle because he was afraid of losing, but watching his fluid grace as he paced, and the ease with which he dodged her kick, made her think that he was far out of her league.

A master vampire like him could have easily put her in the ground. But then again, it wouldn't have been her, not entirely. It would have been Buffy too, and somehow Faith didn't think that would be at all acceptable in his world.

Upstairs, the crypt door slammed open, and the vampire went rigid. All the frenetic energy inside him coiled up tight behind marble-hard muscles and a dispassionate mask. With nonchalance entirely at odds with his earlier frenzied movements, he leaned against the stone wall, crossing his ankles as if he were waiting for the next bus instead of Buffy to come into the room.

Buffy stomped down the stairs, took one look at her naked body stretched out on Spike's bed, and stopped cold.

Her face morphing into something hard and ugly, she whirled on the vampire who hadn't taken his eyes off her since the moment her dainty foot stepped onto the ladder.

"You fucked her!" Buffy cast another bewildered look at Faith. Spike had tried to cover her up, but Faith's innate spitefulness had her kicking off the sheet as soon as it settled. As the watcher entered the room, Faith felt awkwardness creep up, even if it wasn't her naked body on display for everyone to see, and wished she hadn't been contrary just for the sake of it.

"Fucked her in my body?" Her tone matched her bewildered look, and Faith couldn't fathom it. Couldn't fathom the hurt on her sister slayer's face. It dawned on her that maybe Spike hadn't refused to take her in battle because he was afraid of hurting Buffy's body. Maybe he wanted to hurt Buffy in a less tangible, more personal way.

Bruises and broken bones healed. Emotions burned hotter and bled longer.

Faith thought she should feel triumphant in this moment, but all she could think about was how Dawn's nursery had rejected her.

Spike shot off the wall, smoke streaming from his nostrils. "No, I did not!" He growled. He spoke with precision that impressed Faith with his intensity. "But I can see that was a big soddin' mistake. Why don't you and the watcher step out for a nonce and I'll shag her silly, seeing this is about as close as I'll ever get again to your lush little body."

Buffy took a swing. Spike sidestepped and she missed, the foreign body she inhabited making her clumsy.

Thrusting his face into hers, he showed his teeth. "She's a real goer. Yowled like a bloody cat when she came."

Buffy went sheet-white. "You just said you didn't fuck her."

"Had to get her in my bed, didn't I? Had to make her lose her soddin' mind a'fore I could get those cuffs on her."

Buffy's chest rose as she fought for breath and Spike angled his head. It was the same gesture that clued in Faith that she'd overplayed her hand with him. With a morbid fascination she watched him go in for the kill, a cobra striking the mongoose.

"It sure was sweet. Tasting your body with an appreciative woman inside. I didn't have to work like I do with you. She gave it up sweet and easy, and let me know how much she liked it."

This time he didn't dodge away when she swung. Her fist connected with his nose, the crack of his bone loud in the crypt.

_Hello, death wish_. She thought B's relationship with Angel was pure angst. It had nothing on this one.

"That's enough, Spike." The watcher stood by the stairs, not glancing at the bed nor at the spatting couple. Poor guy looked like he just had a two-by-four rammed up his ass. Faith almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

"Do you have the katra?"

Buffy nodded, scrupulously refusing to look at Spike, who was wiping blood off his face. She marched over to the bed to stare down at Faith. She met Buffy's gaze head on, notching her chin, even as she lay vulnerable and exposed.

Buffy ripped the ball gag out of her mouth, staring down at Faith like she expected something.

Faith worked her jaw, glaring at her sister. Fuck no was she going to apologize. No way in hell. Buffy betrayed _her. _Stabbed her in the gut and threw her off a building, all to save her honey bear. If that didn't scream wicked betrayal, Faith didn't know what did.

There sure as shit wasn't going to be Christmas cards and girl's night out in their future.

Faith's eyes cut to Spike, who had yet to take his piercing gaze off Buffy, even when she wasn't looking. For her soul-mate, Buffy had been willing to murder her sister slayer. Faith shuddered to think what Buffy would do for Spike.

They clearly had angst, but if they weren't devastatingly, sickeningly in love, then Faith was a closet submissive. Not just _in love _ –– that fairytale romantic bullshit –– but the kind of love that endures for forty years, during all the ups and downs of life, until they die together in the same bed.

Maybe she should be afraid. Being chained naked to this particular vampire's bed seemed to be an increasingly bad idea. She knew terror when she thought Spike was going to sell her to the highest demonic bidder, but that was before Faith realized she'd walked into some kind of souped-up _telenovela _where the leading lady was more than capable of violence_._

"You bitch," Buffy hissed, and Faith raised a brow. Sweet little Sandra Dee of Sunnydale was finding her inner Pink Lady.

"Sorry to horn in on your man. But if you'd have kept him satisfied I wouldn't have found him trying to pick up tail at The Bronze."

"Vicious skank," Spike growled.

Buffy fisted her hands, eyes dark. "I'd beat you bloody if you weren't in my body."

Faith laughed, weaving her stolen body sinuously on the red velvet comforter. "The vampire told me you liked to play those games, you kinky bitch."

The glare Buffy threw at the vampire should have immolated him. His returning smile could have frozen everything south of the equator.

Giles cleared his throat. "Buffy, we don't have time for this now. We need to get this done before the Council arrives."

For the first time since Buffy entered the room, Spike wrenched his gaze away from her. "The Council?"

"Quite. Ms. Lehane is going to return to England to be reeducated."

"Right," Spike drawled. "And I'm a blessed saint."

Faith felt her stomach drop into a squirming pit. She knew what the Council had in store for her. Either they would completely mind-fuck her, wiping away everything that was her, or they'd execute her. Either way she was a goner.

Buffy turned away, her expression merciless. Not that Faith expected mercy from her, the traitorous, selfish bitch.

"Let's get this done."

Giles approached the bed, stooping to snatch up the sheet Faith had kicked to the floor. "Do be a good girl and leave this on." Giles draped the sheet over her body, concealing her while trying not to look directly at her. She kicked it off with a big smile, the idea of seeing Buffy trussed up and naked appealing to the darkness inside her. Giles sighed and Faith's thoughts were drawn back to those silver sigils lighting up in Dawn's nursery when she tried to enter.

From a knapsack he had carried with him, Giles pulled out a pair of manacles. They rattled loudly in the quiet crypt.

"Buffy?"

Katra in hand, she knelt beside the bed, placing her hands behind her back. With quick efficiency, Giles chained her hands together, while Spike remained watchful.

Once Buffy was chained, Giles turned to Spike. "Extend Faith's hand, they need to touch for the switch to be reversed."

Spike leaned down, grabbing her wrist with more force than necessary and extending it towards the side of the bed. Faith thought about fighting, but lethargy dragged her down. All the fighting, day in and day out, exhausted her. She wished she was still in her coma. Back in that safe, quiet place where suffering didn't exist. Her own slice of heaven.

Buffy angled her body, clutching at Faith with the hand that held the idol. There was a flash of light and when Faith blinked she was on the ground looking up at Buffy chained to the bed. Out of reflex she tested the chains at her back, finding them unbreakable.

"Key, now," Buffy spat, eyes blazing fire at the vampire.

Spike sneered, opening the nightstand drawer to pull out a brass key.

"Chains on your bed, Spike? You bring your little harem of whores down here? Make them strip for you before you chain them up?"

His glacial eyes glittered under his lashes, as he unlocked one manacle. "I'll be sure to tell the girls you said hello. I'm sure they'll be pleased as punch that your ugly, judgmental thoughts are with them." He reached over her to undo the other one.

Buffy's mouth tightened into a firm line as she glanced away.

As soon as she was free, she bounced off the bed, sheet clutched to her chest as she gathered up the slut attire Faith had worn. She glanced around, uncertain.

"Through there." Spike pointed to another room hollowed out of the stone.

She scurried toward it without a thank you.

Faith chuckled. "Good ol' Princess Buffy. Expects everyone to bow before her. She can have anything and anyone she wants, but she's too busy moaning about how horrible her life is."

"Shut the fuck up. No one wants to hear what you have to say." Spike whirled away to pace by the wall.

Faith sighed, suddenly feeling the weight of the world on her shoulders as she knelt in the dirt.

8888

The stone room ended up being a half bath with a sink and shower, no toilet or mirror.

Making sure she couldn't be seen from the other room, Buffy dropped the bundle of clothes on the floor. Despair overwhelmed her, forcing her to press her forearm to her eyes lest she burst into tears. When the wave of emotion receded, she took a deep breath and cupped her hand between her legs.

She felt wetness, but no stickiness. No pleasant soreness of her muscles that usually accompanied sex with Spike. He'd always been vigorous, marking her in a way she felt for hours afterwards.

Heartsick, she lifted her hand, taking a sniff. No Spike scent.

He'd been truthful. He hadn't fucked her. But he had made her come, and from the wetness between her legs, he made her come hard.

She clamped onto the sink, nearly cracking the porcelain with the strength of her grip. Quickly she turned on the taps full force to mask her sobs. Whisking a dingy towel off the rack, she drenched it under the tap, using it wash between her legs, scrubbing hard enough to make her wince.

She wetted the other corner, cleaning the rest of her body. Finally, she washed her face, rinsing away the tears.

Clean, she hurried to pulled on her clothes, only to smell Spike all over them. Smoke and leather and his favorite whiskey. He'd been close enough to Faith to rub himself all over her, and the thought of it made Buffy want to cry all over again.

Pulling herself together, Buffy held her chin high as she stomped into the bedroom.

"Where's Giles?"

She directed her query at Spike without actually looking at him.

"Upstairs. I'm on guard duty."

Faith remained on the floor next to the bed, her dark brown hair hanging in sweaty tendrils around her face.

"I've got it from here, Spike."

"Too bloody bad."

She wheeled on him, face distorted with fury. "Get out!"

He crossed to her in two strides, face thrust into hers. "Sod you. Not leavin' you here alone with her."

"I want to talk to her."

"Be my guest. But I ain't leavin'. My crypt, my rules," he sneered.

When she pulled back her fist, he rolled forward on the balls of his feet, leaning into it like he wanted to get pummeled by her.

"Gawd." She dropped her fist. "Getting beat up is like getting to third base for you." She whirled away, her skanked-out hair nearly whipping him in the face.

She ignored the hiss of anger from behind her as she stood over Faith. Her sister slayer didn't lift her head, just stared at the toes of the sexy strappy sandals Buffy had been saving for a special occasion. Now she was going to have to throw them out.

Anger, vicious and brutal, boiled through her veins and before she knew it she lashed out with her foot, kicking Faith in the face.

"Why?" Buffy screamed. "Why do you do these things?"

Faith rolled onto her back, mouth bloody from Buffy's blow, and laughed. With her blood-stained teeth she looked every inch a vampire. Maybe that's what she wanted. To be evil without the guilt –– to escape the weight of humanity. Why else go to bed with a presumably evil vampire if not to be turned?

Chest heaving, hands fisted along her thighs, Buffy glared down at her sister, just barely resisting the urge to kick her in the ribs. How dare she try to use Spike that way? As an escape from her sins.

A quick glance at Spike showed her that he couldn't take his eyes off Faith. Buffy couldn't read his expression and it made her sick.

"Why did you do this to us?" Buffy's voice shook and she hated herself for it.

Faith rolled around in the dirt, finally getting her legs under her so she could kneel. Hunching her shoulders to scrub away the blood, she looked back up at Buffy with a dark chuckle. Pink stained her lips and around her mouth down to her chin. She looked like a well-kissed whore or a homicidal clown. Either made Buffy shudder.

"You know, you really chap my hide."

Buffy's mouth dropped. "_Me!_ _I _chap your hide? You run around with your want-take attitude, ruining everyone's life, and then wonder why you get beat down. You're a freakin' selfish _bitch!"_

"I'm a selfish bitch? You have _everything. _Friends, family, a cherry-picked life, and all you do is whine about it. _'Poor me, me, me.' _That's all that every comes out of your perfect, princess Buffy mouth."

Buffy wanted to stomp holes in the ground. "I _do not _have a cherry-picked life!" she screamed. "Do you think I wanted this calling? All this pain and suffering ––"

"––Power and strength," Faith finished. "We have abilities other girls only dream of. Every boring, normal girl goes through life wanting to be special. The one with super powers or a rockin' bod, hell, even the ability to burp the National Anthem. Anything to be noticed. Anything to be different from the herd. And here we are as special as special gets and you fucking_ CRY_ about it."

"Our calling isn't about being special or different. It's a burden."

Faith snorted. "I guess that's where we're different, B. I thought it was about saving people."

Buffy rocked back on her heels. Oh, God. Faith was right. Their Calling was all about saving people. Buffy had thought she'd accepted that, but apparently there were still remnants of that scared little girl inside her that just wanted everything to go back to normal. To go back to the time before she knew about monsters and mayhem and everything else that went bump in the night. She wished so badly that was the world she lived in. That it was the world that Dawn lived in. A safe world. A normal world.

"You don't really believe that," Buffy whispered. "For you, it's all about taking what you want."

Faith hung her head, her sweaty hair cascading around her face. "Yeah. I'm a fuck-up. But at least I accept what I am."

Buffy wished she had Faith's strength. She needed it. Needed to accept herself for what she was. Needed to accept the world would never be safe or normal.

Staring down at her sister, Buffy felt all the energy drain out of her. Her knees buckled and she fell into the dirt next to Faith, her head dipping low.

Buffy didn't know how long they sat there in silence. Eternity, it seemed.

"Kinky sex with Blondie, huh? Does he chain you up and make you call him master?"

"No! Nothing like that." Buffy shoved half-heartedly at Faith, and her sister swayed.

Faith took one look at Buffy's flaming face and chortled. "Oh, I see. It's the other way around. You make him lick your boots?"

"No!" Buffy hissed, glancing at Spike as he paced beneath the ladder leading to the upper floor. When he didn't leer or roll his tongue at her, she was certain he hadn't heard. "We do it –– _did _it…sweet." Buffy couldn't hide the longing in her voice. She didn't know why she was sharing. Maybe because, deep down, regardless of all the bullshit, they were sisters, and sisters shared. Besides, she didn't really have anyone to talk to about Spike. Willow had Tara, and Anya had Xander, and, well, her mom was her _mom. _No sex talk happening there. "He was sweet." She rubbed her hand down her midriff. "Always so careful of the baby. Of me."

_Like this, kitten? That feel good? Easy now. I've got you. Love it when you purr for me._

Faith hummed in the back of her throat, drawing Buffy's attention away from her memories. "He tried to hustle me with those chains. Wanting me in them first thing, but I wasn't having it. Blew my mind, the idea of you doing it nasty like." She flicked a sideways glance from the corner of her eye at Buffy. "Blew my mind that you'd trust a vamp like that. Should have known you wouldn't have."

"I would have trusted him," Buffy murmured, rubbing her tummy again, missing the thrum of life that used to rest just beneath her heart, missing what used to be.

Faith watched her with dark, curious eyes. She shuffled closer, moving like an old woman instead of a girl barely twenty. "So you've got yourself a kid with…" Faith's gaze flickered to Spike. He puffed furiously on a cigarette, blue eyes flashing in their direction every few seconds as if checking Buffy was still unharmed.

Buffy dropped her eyes, hands clenched into fists on her knees.

"How'd that happen?"

Buffy thought about Dawn. Her big blue eyes just like her daddy's. The way she kicked up her heels to show her mommy her wonderful toes. "Magic," Buffy whispered.

Beside her Faith nodded, rocking back and forth on her knees.

"You guys aren't together, huh?"

Buffy shook her head. Behind her she could feel Spike's stare like a stake between her shoulder blades, but she kept her gaze squarely on her hands.

Faith chuckled under her breath. "You know, at first I thought he was being a dick. A vampire looking to get some. It wasn't until after, when he fucking tricked me wicked smooth, that I realized he was buggin'."

Buffy's eyes flashed up to Faith's. "What do you mean?"

"The first thing he did, before he called your watcher-man, was wash out his mouth with a shot of Jack. How fucking insulting is that? I thought to myself, 'Damn, this asshole really hates Buffy'."

Buffy's fists tightened, her back going ramrod straight. She could still feel Spike's eyes on her. She wanted to get up off her knees, march over to him, and clock him right across the face.

"Then I saw him when you strutted in wearing my body. He couldn't take his eyes off you."

"You mean you." Buffy's lip curled up into a disgusted snarl. She knew Faith had more going on in the looks department than her. Wild chocolate hair, red kiss-me lips, and a pair of plump c-cups any man would want to fondle.

"No, you." Faith leaned forward until their hair brushed, sisters sharing secrets instead of hated enemies. "He had your body and hated it. Hated touching it. The man wanted the soul. Wanted you. Hell, I think in some twisted way he thought kissing me in your body was still cheating on you. To my way of thinking that's a damn fine man to have."

"He's not a man. He's a vampire," Buffy whispered shakily. She leaned closer to Faith, smelling her own body wash on the other woman.

"There's some wicked shit in this world, B. Even me, uneducated street trash that I am, can see that not everything is as it seems to be. It'd be pretty fucked up if we were only Slayers and not women too. And just because he's a vampire doesn't mean he's not a man."

Buffy clenched her eyes closed, feeling the hot burn of tears leaking from the corners. When she shook her head, wisps of hair stuck to her cheeks.

"Doesn't matter," she whispered too low for even a vampire to hear. "I broke him. Broke his love for me."

Faith rested her forehead on Buffy's shoulder. "That's what Slayers do," she whispered just as quietly, her breath hot on Buffy's neck. "We break things."

"Yeah." Buffy cocked her head until her cheek rested on the crown of Faith's head. She inhaled, and beneath her body wash, Buffy could smell Faith's innate scent. Somehow it comforted her, soothed her the way her mother's scent soothed her.

"You've some pretty wicked enchantments on my niece's nursery."

Buffy lifted her head away from Faith, nudging her so their eyes could meet. "How do you know about those?"

Faith didn't answer, and Buffy felt bile high in her gut. Her sister's face crumpled as she fell forward into Buffy's lap. Her sobs shook her entire body, the depth of them sinking into Buffy.

Misery welled up inside Buffy, answering Faith's wretchedness. She wrapped her arms around Faith, holding her tight against her gut as if using Faith to hold her insides in. She was only peripherally aware of Spike exiting the room on cat-soft feet.

"When did that happen, Buffy? When did I become evil enough to hurt a baby?"

Buffy had no answer for her sister. As the Calling wore down on her, night after night, Buffy acknowledged that the lines between good and evil became more and more blurred.

Everything had seemed so crystal clear before the Initiative. Before Dawn. Before Spike.

Even her relationship with Angel, seemingly so complex and impossible at the time, really had been rendered in the simplest terms. A black and white love affair. With a soul, Angel was good. Without one, he was evil. Simple, neat, and completely two-dimensional.

It had none of the depth her relationship with Spike had.

Buffy shuddered to think how self-centered she used to be. Now with a broader world view brought about by the introduction of the Initiative and the benign demons, Buffy saw things in an array of color. No longer was the world black and white. Nor was it gray. It was every color in the spectrum. Every possibility was clear to her, good and bad.

She had to see herself in the same terms. Not just a fighter firmly on the side of good, but one who straddled the line, fighting to keep the balance. She wasn't white and Faith wasn't black, they were women making the best they could out of life, fuck-ups and all.

But where did that leave them?

Where did it leave her and Spike?

"Do you think it's possible to change?" Faith asked from Buffy's lap. Her tears had run their course, but she showed no signs of moving. "Do you think it's possible to come back from the abyss?"

Buffy carded her fingers through Faith's hair. She thought about Spike and everything he'd done. Not just for her and Dawn, but for his community. For his people.

"Yeah, I do. I've seen it."

"Spike?"

Buffy held Faith tighter, as if her words could somehow pour hope into her sister. "No soul. No ability to feel regret. But he knows the difference between good and evil, and he struggles every day to do the right thing."

"Does he win the struggle?"

"Every day is a battle."

"He does it for you?"

Buffy shook her head, tears prickling her eyes. "I'm not the prize anymore. He does it for himself."

Faith shuddered. "Makes it easier to slip if you don't have something to fight for."

Buffy gathered her close, leaning down to whisper in her ear. "I'm sorry, Faith. I'm sorry for everything I did to you. For everything I took from you."

Faith sat up, her face turned away. "Didn't really have anything, did I? Not even the Mayor."

Buffy reached out to stroke Faith's hair, but the other girl flinched away. She dropped her hand to her empty lap, feeling the emptiness all the way into her soul. "I should have done better by you when you first came to Sunnydale."

Faith chuckled. "Nah. It didn't matter what you did. I was destined to go bad."

Buffy's chest seized. "Faith."

"Hey, send the Watcher-man down here. I've some questions about this reeducation thing."

"Faith."

Faith's eyes were dead when she met Buffy's gaze. "C'mon, B. They'll be here any minute, and I want to know what to expect."

Buffy lost herself in the darkness of Faith's eyes, knowing nothing else could be said. She pushed to her feet, only looking back once before exiting the room.

8888

Buffy stepped out of the crypt, hands shoved into her pockets, gazing up at the stars.

Spike was a shadow among the tombstones, only the cherry of his cigarette visible. She glanced at him before looking away again. "Smoking again?"

"Not like I hav'ta worry about secondhand smoke hurtin' you or the baby."

Though it was summer in Southern California, Spike could see her shudder as if chilled.

"And the crypt? Why'd you move out of the apartment?"

Spike kicked off the tomb he was leaning against, swaggering out of the shadows, looking every inch a vampire.

"Flat's how a man lives, but I'm not a man. I'm a vampire and its time I start livin' like one. You put me in my place good and proper, Slayer. Good on you."

Buffy shot off the tombstone she had seated herself on, lashing out. The tombstone across from her shattered, chunks of granite showering the nearby graves. She didn't stop with one. She lashed out at the others, kicking and punching, and making a low, rumbling cry that reminded Spike of a wolf caught in a bear trap.

When she was done, she stood amid the shattered debris, chunks of rock with exposed quartz glittering like stardust in the moonlight, and shuddered. Her sobs were soundless, and somehow all the more terrible for it.

Spike stood behind her, fists clenched uselessly at his sides as he watched her suffering. He didn't revel in her pain, but he couldn't bring himself to ease it either.

Eons passed before she turned on her heel towards the crypt, wiping her wet face on her bare forearm.

Spike watched her go, words of comfort dead on his tongue.

8888

Buffy dropped down into the lower level of the crypt with grace owned only by Slayers and vampires.

Startled, Giles turned towards her.

"Key, now."

Giles blinked, and stared down at her open hand. "Pardon?"

"Give. Me. The key."

"Buffy," Faith whispered, warning clear in her tone.

Giles removed his glasses, his mouth puckering like he'd sucked on a lemon. "Do you really think this is wise?"

"Yes."

Giles shifted as if the force of her conviction had physically shoved him. When he looked at her it was with a new light. "Is this the balance you want to strive for?"

Buffy didn't hesitate. "Absolutely. What sort of champion would I be if I didn't encourage redemption?" Her eyes flashed toward the upper floor of the crypt before returning to Giles. "I've already screwed the pooch once, Giles. I can't do it again."

"Let them take me. I deserve what they're going to do to me." Faith sounded resigned, and it made Buffy's heart clench tight in her chest.

"They're going to kill you." Buffy shoved her hand toward Giles.

Watching her with unblinking eyes, he dug into his vest pocket for the key. "Who else will you try to reform?"

Buffy tightened her lips. "I can't reform anyone. It's not my job. It has to be a choice. All I can do is support it."

"Is that so?" Giles murmured, stepping aside as Buffy swiped the key from his hand.

Faith frowned, the undercurrents between Buffy and her watcher incomprehensible to her. "Let them take me."

"No." No one was dying on her watch. Not if she could help it. She stepped behind Faith to unchain her. "People worse off than you have come back from the abyss. Go to L.A. Angel will help you. I won't condemn a sister to die."

Faith rubbed her wrists, staying on her knees. "Even one who's a danger to your family?"

Buffy leaned down until her brow was pressed to Faith's. "You _are_ family," she proclaimed, looking her sister deep in the eye. "I believe you can be saved. I know it."


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from BtVS.

**The Dawning**

Chapter Eight

Buffy glanced out the small window over the kitchen sink, noting the sun's position, creeping ever closer to the purple mountain horizon.

Time was a funny thing. When you needed it, you never had it. It slipped through your fingers faster than shit through a goose. But when you waited for it to go on, yearned for it to pass, it stretched on for light years, never seeming to pull taut, never seeming to reach the breaking point.

Had it only been a few days since her and Spike's knock-down, drag-out brawl in the cemetery? Only days since she had broken down in the den and confessed her love of Spike to Xander?

Faith's appearance seemed to have stretched time, sinking Buffy into a deep, dark, endless well of hopelessness. It forced Buffy to take stock, to look around and wonder at the life she had made for herself.

Friends who didn't recognize her. A mother who accepted reckless behavior as the norm. A lover who no longer loved, but longed to hurt.

Buffy didn't blame her friends for not recognizing her. Since the beginning of her pregnancy with Dawn, Buffy had pulled away, creating her own harbor in the shit-storm of her life. As a result, her friends did the same. Xander found shelter with Anya, and Willow found solace in Tara. They had created their own islands unto themselves and thrived.

It was a little harder to forgive her mother. Joyce and Buffy weren't on speaking terms at the moment. Embarrassment and awkwardness lingered between them, knowledge that the mother/daughter bond could be weakened.

It was a lesson Buffy took to heart. She tickled Dawn's bare feet, feeling love surge in her chest. Carefully, she slipped socks and shoes on her tiny feet. The infant scowled at her covered toes, but Buffy quickly distracted her with a raspberry on her tummy. Dawn gurgled and the surge of love in Buffy's chest grew hot and bright until it felt almost too painful to contain.

Turning away, she gathered up extra diapers and stuffed them in the tan canvas bag she'd bought on the shopping trip to the baby store. Spike had been so uncertain as he followed Joyce and Buffy through the store while they shopped for baby items. Had that only been a few months ago? He'd been so certain that he had nothing to offer other than his credit card. His way, he told her, of contributing to the welfare of their child.

_Their child._

How could it be that Dawn was only two and half weeks old? Time playing tricks again. Because if Buffy sat down and thought about it ––something she was loath to do ––then it had only been weeks ago that she'd laid down in Spike's arms in his uptown loft, her belly full of their baby, her very being infused with feelings of safety and dare she say––love?

Only scant weeks ago, she had been happy and content. Before the Initiative came and blew it all to hell.

Two and half weeks since the conscience she had successfully bound, gagged, and thrown into the darkest, dankest part of her brain had broken free and reminded her of her duty.

_Stupid fucking conscience._

_Stupid fucking duty._

It took Faith's fucked-up-ness to jar duty's death grip on Buffy, giving her the strength to crack down on her over-developed superego running as free and crazy as a naked frat boy in a sorority house, and lock it back up where it belonged.

She couldn't go back to where she'd been with Spike only a few short weeks ago, but she could no longer go down the self-righteous path she'd chosen.

Buffy swung the baby bag over her shoulder and picked up Dawn from her bouncer, fluttering tiny kisses over her face. Dawn gurgled happily, and Buffy returned the smile before protectively tucking her daughter against her chest.

Coming face-to-face with Faith had taught Buffy an important lesson. You'd think it'd be about forgiveness and acceptance, but fuck that. Buffy was pissed at Faith. The other Slayer was a selfish, maladjusted nut-case who had a penchant for taking things that weren't hers, namely boyfriends.

But she wasn't evil. And she wasn't lost.

The lesson Buffy learned was that she couldn't change a person. No force on Earth could make someone into something they didn't want to be. All Buffy could do was recognize when someone wanted to change and make a concerted, positive effort to support them.

By the nature of her Calling, Buffy was both judge and executioner. She decided who lived and died and then carried out the sentence. That nature had led her to condemn, more than pardon, those who made mistakes.

It was a huge flaw, and Buffy wanted to change that about herself, because Buffy was adult enough to understand something that she hadn't when she was younger. She wasn't perfect. Her Calling hadn't somehow imbued her with some sort of mystical attribute to know the absolute difference between right and wrong. She made mistakes. But thankfully she _was _human, and because she was human, she could learn.

By sending Faith to L.A. instead of England, Buffy showed Faith that she recognized her as someone who wanted to change and supported her. Now all Buffy had to do was try to do the same in all her relationships.

Hopefully it wasn't too little too late.

Buffy turned into Restfield Cemetery, Dawn cradled in her arms.

8888

Buffy knocked on the solid iron door, the hollow thumping loud in the empty graveyard. When no one answered, she pounded again, louder.

Finally, she could feel rustling inside the crypt before the door swung open with a loud creak. From the shadows, yellow eyes glowed. They blinked, and all she could see was blue. Spike stared at her, then down at Dawn nestled in her arms. There was a moment of silence where Buffy felt a shot of unease.

"Wait." The door closed in her face, and Buffy blinked. Of all the scenarios she had run through, Spike shutting the door on her and Dawn hadn't been one of them.

Before she could turn on her heel to stomp away, the door opened and instead of shadows, the crypt was flooded with candlelight.

_Oh, well. Of course he'd want to make sure we could see._

Wordlessly, Spike opened the door further, shifting to the side to avoid the spill of sunlight. She slid inside, blinking to adjust to the low light after he closed the door. They stared at each other until tension strung so tightly between them that Buffy thought she'd snapped like over-chewed bubble gum.

"Well, do you want to hold her?" Buffy lightly bounced Dawn in her arms, fighting to keep her face impassive as she offered up her daughter to Spike.

_Our daughter, _she reminded herself. Although her slayer instincts were screaming for her to take her child and run as fast and far as she could, her rational side _knew _without any doubt that Spike would never hurt Dawn.

Spike blinked again, as if he was trying to wake up from a dream. He cleared his throat before speaking. "Uh, yeah." He didn't sound certain. He reached for her, thought better of it, and dropped his hands to wipe them clean on his jeans. Reaching for her again, he jerked back, decided that the quick wipe on his pants wasn't good enough and about-faced to wash up in the sink, using a handful of antibacterial dish soap.

Buffy found his uncertainty endearing, and more than a little heartbreaking. Had she done this to him, or would he have acted with the same hesitation if offered to hold Dawn from the very beginning? She thought he might have. His nervousness was that of a new father being presented his baby for the first time and had nothing to do with him being a vampire.

Finally, his hands clean and dry, Spike approached, his face a study of cautious concern. That concern melted away to awe-filled wonder as he scooped his daughter out of Buffy's arms. Buffy stood transfixed at the sight, her heart swelling until it crowded her throat. Choking back tears, she fussed around, showing Spike how to support Dawn's head.

She needn't worry. Spike took to holding his baby as if he were a natural, falling into the odd, shuffling step that all new parents seemed to perfect in the first few hours of parenthood to soothe their child. A dormant instinct triggered by picking up a newborn and holding it to your chest.

Stepping back, Buffy watched them together, and the swelling in her chest turned to a tidal wave of regret. Until that very moment, she hadn't realized how much she had longed to see Spike hold their baby. How much she desired the sense of connectedness shared between two people when holding their child for the first time. Connectedness fractured because of fear. Because of the nature of who they were.

She wondered if they could ever be a family. If she and Spike could ever cross the distance separating them. If the dream of a white picket fence was even possible for them.

Buffy glanced around the crypt, noting details she hadn't during her first visit. The corners were dusty with cobwebs, the floor caked in dirt. Somehow Spike had cobbled together electricity, as evidenced by the old television and microwave tucked away in the corner, but most of his belongings looked like they came from the dump.

Seeing father and daughter were completely enamored with each other, Buffy wandered over to a ratty, mustard yellow Barcalounger. Wrinkling her nose, she dusted it off before sitting gingerly on the edge. Tucking her hands between her knees, she looked up to see Spike watching his daughter suck her tiny thumb.

"She's perfect, yeah?" he whispered as if afraid to disturb the tiny bundle resting on his chest.

Looking at them, Buffy thought she'd never seen a more perfect sight than father and daughter together.

"She is. We did a good job."

He flashed her a dazzling smile, and for just a moment, their animosity disappeared as they basked in the glory of their child. Despite all the anger and bitterness between them, they could absolutely agree that their child was the most perfect, wonderful, glorious person in their lives.

They had absolutely done a good job.

The moment between them was lost. Spike looked away to gaze adoringly at his daughter, and Buffy cleared her throat.

"What happened to your apartment? Did you give it up?"

"Still got it." Spike smoothed a hand over Dawn's back. She had her knees tucked up on his chest, her bottom sticking out in what Joyce affectionately declared to be the frog-butt position.

"You going to be moving back there anytime soon?"

"What's it to you?" With his chin sky high and his shoulders back, Spike looked downright aggressive, even with his baby daughter in his arms. He reminded her of the vampire who had spent a considerable amount of effort trying to kill her once upon a time. No longer did she see the lover he used to be. She couldn't help but acknowledge that she had been the one to cause his regression.

She hadn't supported him, the changes he made to be in their lives, but honestly, she was so very afraid. All anyone saw when they looked at her was a stone cold bitch, never realizing how much she lived in fear. Fear she'd be forced to stake Spike for feeding. Fear that something undefinable was stalking her daughter. Fear that no one would protect Dawn if something happened to Buffy.

Spike would never love her again. She knew that with the same certainty there'd be another apocalypse in May. But if she was patient – okay, to be honest, patient was a stretch – but if she worked on being less bitchy, then maybe she could recover the vampire Spike had been before she screwed the pooch, and give Dawn the daddy she deserved. A daddy who didn't have a soul, but was heroic and honorable in his own way.

A daddy who'd overlook the hatred he had for her mother, with a willingness to protect Dawn no matter what.

Buffy looked around the crypt pointedly, using her bitchiness for a good cause for once. "This isn't really the best place for a baby."

The first step in reclaiming Daddy Spike was getting him to live like a man again. That meant getting him back in his apartment and not this dingy crypt, unfit for even for the bones buried there.

Spike winged a dark brow at her. "There goin' to be more visits in the future, then?"

She folded her fingers together between her knees, holding herself together as she calmly met his gaze. "Yeah, Spike. There's going to be more visits. You belong in Dawn's life."

Wow. Saying the words out loud, while looking him in the eye, it released the pressure growing in her chest for the last few weeks. Like there had been a balloon in there, slowly expanding, pushing painfully against her heart and lungs until she could barely breathe. But with her words came a prick, deflating the balloon until she could breathe again.

"Is that so? And what's brought on this miraculous change of attitude from the almighty Slayer?"

Her entire body went rigid, her lips compressing in a thin line. Showing a little patience and understanding didn't mean she had to let herself be shit on. The one thing Spike couldn't stand was a weak female. He had a penchant for strong women. Something she needed to remember if she wanted to win this battle. Although straddling the line between strong and bitchy was going to be a difficult learning experience for her.

Standing up from the chair, she crossed her arms over her chest. "If you don't want visitation with Dawn then we can leave."

Dawn cooed as Spike drew her closer to his chest, eyes flashing. "Didn't say that. Just questionin' your change of heart."

Buffy winced at the mention of heart. Despite what she confessed to Xander, she was in no way ready for Spike to know how she felt about him. It was a moot point.

Lessons learned had taught her to guard her heart. Especially from something so catastrophic as admitting her love for Spike. Because while she knew he adored Dawn, she could never truly believe he could love her. The last few weeks had proven how unlovable she was. Most of the time she didn't even like herself; how could she expect another to do so?

Besides, while she supported Spike's struggle to be good, she was practical enough to know the deck was stacked against him without a soul. A soul gave him a connection to humanity he just couldn't bridge without one.

Spike might _know_ that murder was wrong, but he didn't truly _care _and that was the real problem.

The death of innocents didn't bother him. He could easily tear out the throat of a hapless woman and feel not a hint of remorse. The only regret he'd feel is if his actions affected him in some way. She couldn't live like that. How could she possibly give her heart to someone who didn't feel an ounce of compassion?

She might love Spike, but that didn't make it right.

"Well, don't," she snapped.

"Oh, that's right. No one questions the Slayer, isn't that right? Your word being law an' all."

"Do you really want to get into this, Spike? Or do you want to enjoy your time with Dawn?"

He glanced down at the infant, his scowl losing some of its venom.

"You treatin' her right, Slayer?"

Buffy's brow crumpled. Had Spike somehow picked up on her self-doubt? It seemed as though she questioned every little thing she did for Dawn. Was the rash on her bottom because she hadn't changed her diapers quickly enough? Was she crying because she wasn't getting enough milk? Were her socks too tight around her little ankles? Was she too cold or warm during the night? Did Buffy play with her enough? Was exhaustion going to cause her to make a mistake one night and leave Dawn motherless?

"What do you mean?"

"Just want to make sure you're not punishin' her."

Her jaw sagged. "How could you say that?"

"I'm not sayin' you'd do it on purpose. Your motherin' instincts sure put me in my place lickety-split. I just don't want you to…you know…subconsciously hate her because of me."

Shocked to the core of her very being, Buffy dropped her eyes, focusing on how gently Spike cradled Dawn to his chest, hands curled protectively around the infant.

She turned away, training her eyes on the play of light through the dusty stained glass window high in the crypt eaves.

"I would never do that," she whispered.

Part of her expected Spike to see her hurt and rush to comfort her like he had in the past, but an apology wasn't forthcoming and his accusation hung heavily between them.

"I love Dawn with all my heart. I'd protect her from anything, even myself."

"Then we agree on somethin'."

Buffy turned to face him. "Do we?"

"I love her too, Buffy." He held up his hand to ward her off before she could speak. "Know you think it's impossible for me to love, but believe this. I'd protect her from anything."

"Even me?" She needed them to be clear on this point. If she ever became a threat to Dawn, she expected Spike to put her down.

"Even you."

"Then why don't you understand my need to protect her from you?" No matter how sympathetic Spike's plight might seem to her mother and Giles, and even Xander, Spike was still a master vampire who could now kill unfettered. He might be fighting his evil nature, but that nature was still evil. A demon whispered sweetly evil nothings in his ear. It would take a great man to ignore that kind of insistent gnawing at his mind to do evil.

Only time would tell if Spike would eventually give in.

Spike's mouth firmed. He palmed Dawn's tiny skull, fingers feathering over her fine, dark hair. It unsettled her, seeing his large, strong hand that had killed thousands, easily snuffing the life out of infants, touching Dawn with reverence.

"I do understand. And if I ever become a threat to Dawn, I certainly know you'll do me in without a shred of regret." His closed expression effectively ended their conversation.

Buffy lifted her face up to the window. "There'd be regret," she whispered, failing to remember how exceptional vampire hearing was. "But it wouldn't stop me."

Spike began to softly sing a lullaby. Something about early mornings and maidens. Buffy listened with half an ear while she went back to watching the dying light filter through the colored glass.

8888

Buffy sat in the Barcalounger, staring up at the dust motes floating through the meager waning light streaming through the grimy stained-glass window. On the other side of the crypt, Spike paced with Dawn, alternatively singing to her and praising her.

If Spike could be believed, their daughter was a perfect, _perfect _princess who was the cleverest, brightest, and most beautiful in all the land.

Buffy kept her face averted and tried not to laugh. Who would have thought the Big Bad would be such a marshmallow?

Eventually, Dawn began to whine, snuffling against Spike's chest.

"She's hungry," Buffy informed.

"Got a bottle in here?" Spike poked at the tan diaper bag Buffy left on the sarcophagus. It was stuffed to the brim with bits and bobs he couldn't make heads or tails of. Why in the world was there another pair of baby shoes in there? Did the dozy bint think the infant would somehow lose the ones she was currently wearing?

Buffy cleared her throat, a blush painting the edge of her cheeks, making Spike hungry. He tightened his grip on Dawn, ignoring his demon's insistent cravings.

"I…uh…nurse."

"Oh." No force on earth could have stopped his eyes from dropping to her well-endowed chest. He remembered fondling that magnificent chest only weeks ago, eagerly looking forward to when Dawn would be born and the changes to come. "You off then?"

Buffy frowned, her nose crinkling in a way he used to find adorable. "I don't want to carry her through the graveyard when she's fussing. Like a siren call for predators."

Spike's entire body snapped taut. "Right." No predator in its right mind better fuck with his little girl. Spike'd rip the nasty bugger limb from limb and pike the bastard's head in front of his door as a warning.

Buffy settled herself back in the lounger, undoing the buttons of her blouse. "Could you bring her to me?" she asked without looking up at him.

Spike froze, eyes locked on her nimble fingers. She glanced up at him, and he jerked out of his daze. "Uh, yeah. Okay." He strode over to her, reluctantly releasing his daughter to her care. When Buffy pulled her blouse to the side, her spun around, marching to the other side of the crypt. He shook out a cigarette, popping it in his mouth, and opening his lighter with a snap of his wrist.

"No smoking around Dawn."

Spike shot her a dirty look, but Buffy's head was bowed over Dawn's curly, dark-haired one. She cradled Dawn to her chest, and if the quiet sucking noises were any indication, the babe was enjoying a right fine meal.

"Right. Sorry." Spike snapped the lighter shut, carefully putting away his cigarette.

"You might as well quit now that you'll be seeing Dawn on a regular basis."

"Why?" Spike sneered. "Not like she's going to be living with me. Not like we are going to be playing family back at the loft. Can smoke where I like, long as it's not during _visitation._" Spike spat out the word like it was dirty, causing Buffy to grimace.

Spike inwardly smirked, placing another tally mark on the board he kept in his head of all the ways he intended to punish Buffy for hurting him. He didn't know what got her to change her tune, to suddenly decide he got to have rights over his child that should have never been taken away in the first place, but he would damn sure not grovel at her feet in gratitude.

He knew she thought she was being benevolent, letting him have his limited _visitation _with his daughter, playing the wounded martyr role she excelled at, but he knew the truth. Buffy was a right bitch, and throwing him some pathetic little bone wasn't going to change that.

"You could go back to the loft. Like I said before, this isn't a place for a baby."

He noticed she said nothing about her. About how he got the flat in the first place so he could be a man instead of a monster for _her. _Sure he wanted a safe place for his daughter to play, but his original intent was to create a space Buffy would approve of. A place she'd feel comfortable creating a life, together, the three of them.

"Maybe, but a crypt's where dead things like me belong. Like _I _said. You put me in my place good and proper, Slayer. Not going to pretend to be a man when I'm not."

He watched her beautiful profile as her lips tightened, and he knew he'd hit his mark. He lodged another mental tally mark on his board and tried not to grin.

"That why you got chains over your bed, Spike? Playing vampire games?"

"Jealous, Slayer," he purred, delighted beyond measure. Delight that dimmed when she finally turned her face toward him. Her expression was cold as stone, her eyes taking a dead sheen he'd never seen before.

"Not those kind of games, Spike." Her muscles tensed, her grip on Dawn tightening until the infant whined in protest. Her eyes darted toward her bag, making him realize she had more than baby shite in there. No doubt a stake was hidden among the many pockets.

His entire body tightened with barely contained fury. He breathed in deep through his nose, holding back the demon screaming for blood, screaming deep inside the hollow where his soul used to be.

"I told you once, and I won't tell you again. I'm not feeding. I won't be feeding. Dawn is too important to me. More important than the hunger. The agony. The wretched unending craving." She held his eyes, her expression unforgiving. "More important than you'd ever be to me, even on my knees as I am."

For the barest instant, Buffy's expression shattered and for the first time since he'd heard her sobbing behind the closed door as she locked him out of the house, he saw the heartbreak she carried. She hid it away so quickly, Spike almost doubted he saw it. After all, the bitch was nearly heartless. If it wasn't for the open affection she showed Dawn, Spike would be tempted to say she was stone cold.

She turned away, staring down at Dawn. Losing her penetrating gaze allowed him to finish. "I'll not feed. That's my vow to Dawn."

Silence surrounded them. Outside he could hear the hooting of an owl, and he didn't need his internal clock to know dusk had fallen.

"What happens when she's dead?"

Spike staggered as if suffering a physical blow. "What?" he gasped. If he were human, the blood would have drained from his face. As it was, he felt a little lightheaded.

Buffy lifted her head, spearing him with those stern green eyes of hers. Sometimes when he looked into her eyes, he had to wonder how she could deny her supernatural origins in an attempt for normal. It was so clear to him how extraordinary she was. How special. How could no one else see it?

"Surely you've thought about it?"

"Thought about what?"

"That someday she'll die. And even if you don't care, I'll die too. Soon, I expect."

"Fuck!" Spike grabbed his brow, covering his eyes with his palm. "Don't say such rot."

"Well, it's true." She almost sounded bored. Or resigned. Uncaring that her words were like a stake to his heart. "After all, we're only human. You're not. Immortal and all."

Spike didn't reply and she continued, sounding almost thoughtful. "We're going to die. And you'll be left alone. What will happen then?"

He let his hand slide off his face, wiping all expression from his face when he did. When he met her gaze, his eyes were blazing.

"You're a cruel woman, Buffy Summers."

She frowned, sadness making her look decades older than she was. "I don't mean to be, but it doesn't make it any less true."

Her words were hard, but true, and he knew it. He didn't like it, but it didn't make them any less real.

"You'll look after her when I'm gone, won't you, Spike? You'll see her safe when I can't?"

Everything Spike felt for Buffy, beneath all the hate and bitterness, surged to the forefront. He crossed the crypt in long strides to kneel at her feet. He looked up at her, sitting primly in his ratty, unworthy chair, holding their child close to her heart, and he knew he still loved her. Oh, he'd never tell her that. Never again. He'd learned his lesson good and proper. But that didn't mean he had to lie to himself.

"'Til the end of the world, luv."

She reached out, trailing her warm fingers down his cold cheek, and it was all he could do not to lean into her touch.

"Then what?" she whispered.

Spike thought of Buffy moldering in her grave, and his sweet bit no longer drawing breath. Life after that was inconceivable.

"Nothing, I expect. Nothing to live for after that."

She held his gaze for a long moment, before nodding solemnly. "No, with Dawn gone, there'd be nothing left to live for."

Her fingertips slid off the point of his chin, as she turned back to their daughter. Without her penetrating gaze, Spike felt some pressure release from his chest. He knew in that moment, no matter what, he'd protect Dawn with everything that he was. Because like Buffy said, without her there was nothing. If something ever happened to Dawn, it would destroy Buffy. Destroy them both.

Conversely, if something ever happened to Buffy, Dawn would be motherless, and watching how tenderly Buffy held their daughter, Spike knew he could never let that happen.

So Spike stayed on his knees, silently promising to watch over them until the end of the world.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from BtVS.

Thank you to ObscureBookWyrm. I made her work overtime on this chapter.

**The Dawning**

Chapter Nine

Buffy had put her blouse to rights and had Dawn on her shoulder, burping her, when a tingle crawled its way down her spine. Spike snapped to attention, his entire focus on the door to the crypt and the graveyard outside.

"Vampires," Buffy whispered. "Lots of them." She shot up from the Barcalounger, settling Dawn on the seat near the back, and used her rolled-up blanket to pin her in. By the time she finished, Spike was already at the door, fanged out, yellow-eyed, and armed with a two-headed axe. He looked dangerous and ready to kill. The sight of him looking so deadly shouldn't excite her, but it did.

Propped next to the door was a sword and Buffy swiped it up, ignoring how her sweaty palms slid over the leather-wrapped hilt. Buffy didn't fear battle. She liked dancing with death. But with Dawn tucked only a few feet away, going into battle took on a whole new level of intensity.

Buffy didn't need to win the fight to save her own skin or even the entire world. She had to fight to save her daughter. If she failed, there'd be no one standing between Dawn and whatever was coming after her. Buffy never wanted Dawn to catch a glimpse of what she fought every night. Monsters with fangs and claws, and with death in their eyes. She had to keep standing to protect her daughter.

Slanting a look at Spike, Buffy sensed the same intensity thrumming through him, the knowledge that he was fighting for more than just himself. Fighting for more than just Buffy. They were fighting for their child.

Heat and fury pumped through her veins, heightening her senses. She had never felt so scared or so powerful.

She nodded to Spike, who, on her mark, yanked open the door and leaped out. Buffy followed him, slamming the door shut behind her.

"Wait!" Buffy grabbed Spike by the arm, holding him back before he could leap into the fray.

Gilgamesh stood at the head of a dozen warrior vampires, dressed in studded leather cuirasses and armed to the teeth. The gigantic vampire inclined his head, palms pressed together as he bowed.

"_Ama-gi. _Dusk has descended upon us. We await and will escort you and The Miraculous One to your abode."

"Her name is Dawn," Buffy sighed. The point of her sword fell toward the ground. Seriously. The guy was a bazillion years old. Surely he could remember the name of the infant he was pledged to protect?

Gilgamesh inclined his head without replying. Typical. The man was of few words, that was for sure. Buffy had had more riveting conversation with the Fyarl demon she slayed last week, and that guy only knew three words in English. _Die, slayer_ and _screw you_. Okay, so he knew four.

"Slayer. Care to clue me in?" Spike still had his axe hefted over his shoulder, ready to attack even though his stance had relaxed.

"_La Sanan. _Allow me to introduce myself. I am Gilgamesh of the _Mitutu_. We have pledged ourselves to guard your child with our unworthy lives."

Spike pivoted on his heel, brows raised. "Forget to tell me something, love?"

"I…" Buffy closed her mouth, gesturing helplessly toward the group of warriors. "I don't really have the words." She really didn't. She had no idea what to make of Gilly and his little club of Dawn worshipers. Frankly, it wigged her out more than a little. During their encounters, they were respectful, and a few always showed to escort her on her patrols. They never interfered with her kills, but she had the feeling that if things didn't go her way they'd be there to see her safe. It comforted her, knowing someone cared if she made it back to Dawn, yet it still wigged her out, big time. In her experience, fanatical vampires who branded themselves with holy symbols shouldn't be trusted.

"Wait." Spike pivoted back to Gilgamesh. "Did you just call me 'Unrivaled' in Sumerian?"

"You speak Sumerian?" Buffy's jaw sagged.

Spike ignored her, edging closer to Gilly. "Are you…" Spike looked the big man up and down, taking in his long beard with its copper spirals and topaz beads. "_The _Gilgamesh?"

Buffy threw up her hands. "How does everyone know this guy, but me?"

"So I guess that whole journey to the land of the undying one wasn't metaphorical, huh?" Gilgamesh nodded at Spike's words in his stately way that made Buffy think of royalty.

Spike pointed to the rest of the group, sharp eyes taking in the stylized suns branded into their foreheads. "And you're _Mitutu. _ Dead Ones."

Again Gilgamesh nodded.

"Not strictly true, is it? Being vampires and all." When Gilgamesh didn't respond, Spike continued. "And you think my daughter is your Miraculous One?"

"A child born of a master vampire and a slayer can only be miraculous, yes?"

Spike nodded, obviously a little gobsmacked.

"_Kashurra_," some of the men muttered behind Gilgamesh.

"What was that?" Spike peered around the bigger man.

Gilgamesh shifted and Spike's view was cut off. Spike glared, taking a step back to assess the other man.

Gilgamesh ignored him and addressed the Slayer instead. "Rumors have been circulating, _Ama-gi."_

Spike snorted, drawing Buffy's attention. "What?"

"He just called you 'Freedom'."

Buffy's brow curled, watching as Spike drew out his pack of cigarettes from his coat. "Or more exactly – freedom from debts, slavery; to restore." Spike cast her a sly glance. "To return to a previous state. Return to the mother."

"What does that even mean?"

Spike shrugged.

Buffy scowled at him, before turning to question Gilgamesh. She was sick and tired of the cryptic men in her life. "What rumors?"

"That the Miraculous One is _Kashurra."_

Buffy turned to Spike with her brow raised. Spike blew out a stream of smoke, staring at Gilgamesh. "Awesome? I admit, Dawn is bloody fantastic, but…"

"The pure which opens."

"Opens what?" Buffy asked.

Gilgamesh shrugged. "We do not know, but we feel this must be her destiny and we will see it through."

Again with the cryptic.

8888

The four children surrounded him, sentinels guarding the treasure. That treasure being their mother, who he could hear moving around in the kitchen from which the scent of savory meat wafted.

Chantilly told them they were having Greek food, lamb something or another. Graham told her he'd never eaten authentic Greek food, unless the gyros he sometimes ate at the mall food court counted. Her disgusted look told him it didn't. He wasn't sure if her disgust was from him trying to pass off mall food as Greek or if just the thought of anyone eating anything coming from the mall made her sick.

With her pretty pink lips pulled into a pout, she shrugged and informed him she was Greek and he best get used to eating _real _food. Then she'd given him a once over that reminded him of his mom just before she handed him a second helping at the dinner table.

He'd thought of Chantilly as a demon; her provenance had never occurred to him. The Initiative didn't see ethnicity, only the divergence between Polgara demons and Drokken beasts. Which was stupid, now that he thought about it. Demons had their own cultures and traditions, usually stemming from whatever dimension they hailed from.

But Chantilly was Greek. An Earth demon born and bred, apparently in Ancient Greece, where her ancestors had been worshiped as the keepers of the Gallic Rose, having something to do with Persephone's bouquet. It didn't matter. All that mattered was that her people were hippie, peace-loving, flower keepers.

Her entire house reflected her green thumb tastes. Flowers and greenery spilled out from every crack and corner of the sewer apartment. Hell, a tomato plant cascaded from a wire pot dangling from the ceiling near a heat lamp, fat red fruit among the thick green vines. Graham could only imagine what the woman could do with a small corner of earth to sink her hands into. She'd make the entire place bloom.

_Flowers! _The woman tended flowers. You couldn't get any more innocuous than flora, and the Initiative had locked her up in a cage and tortured her. Graham had never felt more disgusted to be human.

He didn't question the invitation when issued. He was just thrilled that she invited him to her home for dinner after weeks of him going to Eden nightly. They spoke during her breaks, and finally she started letting him walk her home after her shift, instead of him following at a discreet distance, making sure she made it home to her children. Not that it didn't make him feel like a creeper. _At all. _But now he was finally inside, he wasn't going to do shit to fuck it up.

That meant playing nice with the demon spawn. The three youngest were sweet, big blue eyes like their mama, and the same delicate build, but the eldest truly was a demon spawn. A little witch in the making.

Ana, the youngest of the demons, wrapped her hand around the crease of his sharply pressed twill pants, only to waver and fall back on her diapered bottom when her older sister hip-checked her.

The two and half year old looked up at him with huge, betrayed eyes, the intensely blue color sparkling with unshed tears.

Graham shot a look at Lila, careful to keep his irritation in check. The thirteen-year-old was the spitting image of her mother, with coral hair with deeper undertones of lavender. All she was missing were the minute rose-colored scales along her temples and marching down her arms, although he could see a faint shimmer where they should be. He suspected the scales had something to do with puberty, something he had no desire to witness. The girl already had buckets full of attitude. None of it good, especially when directed at him.

"You're human." Five years old and the only boy in the house, Kanshe looked a little henpecked.

Graham's supposition was proven corrected when Lila hip-checked him as well. The boy cast his older sister a truly nasty glare and Graham wanted to high-five him. He saw a potential ally in the kid, and Graham needed all the allies he could get now that he was behind enemy lines.

"Humans are evil," Lila declared, arms crossed over her chest. The look on her face was worthy of any Amazonian warrior ready to castrate any males found in her territory.

Although irritated, Graham wanted to smile. He wasn't the only one who needed allies. Chantilly needed them as well, and it was clear she found one in her eldest daughter.

"Evil?" Mattie wheezed. The eight-year-old had a wan look about her and was constantly out of breath. He hadn't asked Chantilly about it yet, but he'd seen the worried looks she cast her daughter whenever she was in the room.

He was certain that the dampness of the sewer-level apartment didn't help the situation. Glancing around at the underground rooms with their cold cement walls and brick floors covered with threadbare rugs, Graham couldn't help but think of his childhood. His parents had owned a small ranch outside of Addison, Texas. He'd grown up running through fields, his Australian Collie, Shep, at his heels.

The farm had been closed up since his mom died five years ago, but he'd been thinking about it quite a bit lately. Now that he was leaving the Army, all he could think about was going home. He never realized, until he had nowhere else to go, how much he missed the ranch.

"Eve?" Ana chirped from around her thumb. She had stumbled back to her feet again, but was wise enough not to reach for him, knowing her sister would only hip-check her again.

Graham squatted down, holding out his hand. Ana took it without hesitation, making his heart do a flip in his chest.

"No, little flower. I'm not evil."

"Sure, you are." Lila pronounced. "All humans are evil. That's why we have to hide all the time."

"Lilian Rebecca Stravos, that's not true." Graham looked up, seeing Chantilly inside the doorway separating the den from the kitchen. She finished drying her hands on a crisply white dishtowel before propping her fists on her curvy hips. "Not all humans are evil. We hide to keep our family safe."

"Yeah," Lila spat. "Because humans are evil and will cut us up and put our parts in jars if they ever catch us."

Ana jerked her hand out of Graham's and started to wail.

Chantilly started forward, but Graham beat her. Pulling Ana into his arms he stood, cradling her against his chest. "Hush, little flower. No one is ever going to hurt you. I'll protect you."

"Yeah, right. Greg was an asshole, but at least he was a demon. You're just a weakling human."

Graham wasn't offended by Lila's assertion that being human made him weak. He was weaker than the average demon, but his skills made up for his lack. Now that he pledged to protect Chantilly and her children, he was confident that he'd see it through, whether he did it from a distance or from right next to Chantilly. Truthfully, he'd rather do it from beside her. He also wanted to know who the fuck Greg was.

"Apologize."

"No!"

"Then go to your room."

Graham shifted. "It's okay, I'm—"

Chantilly shot him a deadly look and he snapped his mouth shut.

"Why do I have to go my room for telling the truth?"

"You're being rude to our guest. If you can't be civilized, then you can't sit down with us to have a civilized meal."

"That's not fair. He _is _a human and Greg _was_ an asshole."

Chantilly pointed to the back of the apartment, her face implacable. "Go. Don't come out until you can apologize or don't come out at all."

"Fine." She stomped down the hall, disappearing from sight. "I'll just stay in here until hell freezes over!" A door slammed, knocking one of the family portraits off the wall.

8888

Graham and Chantilly sat down on her broken-down couch, covered with a colorful, hand-knitted afghan, and watched as her three youngest cleaned up the after-dinner board game they just finished playing. Apparently, hell hadn't frozen over yet, because Lila remained in her room for the entire evening.

Graham had his arm over the back of the couch, careful not to brush Chantilly's shoulders as she sat close beside him without leaning against him. However, he couldn't stop his rebellious fingers from trapping strands of her silky hair and winding it around themselves. Her hair was truly the softest thing he'd ever touched.

Mattie wheezed and Chantilly stiffened beside him. He noted how carefully she watched Mattie, practically vibrating with the need to help her daughter, as the girl pulled out her inhaler, using it before happily going about the task of sorting the Monopoly money into piles.

"Things will be wrapped up here in two months." He didn't dare mention the Initiative by name. The place only held bad memories for them, but until the labs were closed down it was still a part of his life. Not for long. Thankfully. "After that my tour will be up."

Chantilly shifted to look up at him. No amount of time in her presence would ever inure him to the impact of her eyes. So blue they burned like the heart of the flame, searing him right down to his soul.

"I won't be reenlisting."

She lifted her hand, long pale fingers trailing along her gold-dusted collarbone. A habit she had when nervous. He ached to trail kisses in the wake of the long, elegant fingers.

"What will you do?"

"I've a ranch in Texas. Nothing big. It will sustain a couple hundred head of cattle. Enough to provide free-range meat to the local area."

Chantilly nodded, dropping her eyes away. While her looking at him always hit him like a blow to his chest, when she dropped her eyes it was like she was tearing away a piece of his soul. Always. He didn't know if that feeling would ever go away, and frankly he didn't think he wanted it to.

To ease the loss of her eyes, he pinned his gaze on Mattie. The little girl was humming as she counted the fake money, something he found endearing because there was no reason to do so now the game was over.

"The climate's dry there. Summers are pretty hot, but the rest of the time it's mild. Good for the lungs."

Chantilly whipped her head around, and the silky strands of her hair escaped his fingers. The longer she went without speaking the more he fought not to squirm. He couldn't look at her, so he watched as Kanshe patiently helped his baby sister sort the green houses from the red hotels.

"You should go now," she told him and his stomach dropped to his knees. He felt like dry heaving.

"Yeah, okay." He didn't look at her as he hauled himself up off the couch, waiting for her to lead him out.

He stood over the children, hands shoved into his pockets. "Thanks for the game, guys. It was fun."

Mattie stopped counting, her little nose wrinkling. "Maybe next time we can play Life or something. You didn't do so well at Monopoly."

Graham nodded. He played the game to have fun, not to win. He passed on property buys and made deals when he shouldn't have. Next time he wouldn't go so easy on the kids. They were ruthless.

Graham _really _hoped there'd be a next time. One glance at Chantilly's face told him there more than likely wouldn't be.

Kanshe pried one of the houses out of his sister's hand before she could pop it into her mouth. The house liberated from Ana's sticky fingers, the boy looked up at him, eyes unerringly zeroing in on Graham's hip. Graham dressed in civies, but his jacket didn't hide the slight bulge of his firearm. "Bet you're good at Risk."

"Not as good as you'd think, kid."

The nausea in his stomach intensified when Chantilly motioned for him to follow. "Thanks for having me, guys." He nodded to the kids as they chorused their goodbyes, only to stop when Ana waddled up to him, her tiny fist outstretched. He bent down, smiling softly when she handed him a red hotel from the game. Instead of returning it to the box, he shoved it deep in his pocket. A memento from this evening. He'd never give it up.

"Thank you, little flower." Unable to stop himself, he brushed her bangs from her eyes. She needed a haircut. She flashed him a dimpled smile before waddling off. Man, a smile like that would drive any father to drink trying to beat the boys off her when she got older.

Straightening, he followed Chantilly to the door. He stiffened when she stepped out onto the sewer walk with him, closing the door behind her. This is where she would tell him that she didn't want to see him anymore, that his advances were unwanted. He wished he could tell her that while he wanted her more than he needed air to breathe, he'd never ever push her. Even if she and her children came and lived in his house for the next thirty or forty years, he'd never ask anything from her. Just having her near him would be enough.

Avoiding her eyes, he glanced both ways down the walk, frowning. He didn't like the idea of Chantilly and the children living down in this dank sewer. It wasn't safe or healthy. They deserved better.

"You'll come back in two days for dinner."

Graham's attention snapped to her so quickly, he almost got whiplash.

"Okay."

"Of course, my favorite are Gallic roses, but any pink or gold flower will do. And red wine, I think. For dinner."

Graham nodded. Vigorously.

"Lila likes that new boy band. I forget which one."

"I'll figure it out," he said quickly.

"Good. You can start bribing her with that." She wagged his finger in his face. "But not too much bribing. You can't let her win that way."

"Right. No. Of course." No 'of course' about it. Graham had no idea how to go about thawing out the little preadolescent witch. Maybe he could buy a parenting book.

"Good." She nodded briskly.

"Good," he mimicked her, feeling a little overwhelmed.

"Now, you will kiss me."

Graham blinked, dropping his gaze to her plush, pink lips. He thought nothing could be more alluring than her eyes. He was wrong.

She poked him in the chest. "Did you not hear me, hero?"

He snapped back to attention. "I'm not a hero."

She pursed her lips and he became enraptured again. "You're my hero," she whispered.

That's it. He was going to kiss her. No way could he stop himself. He locked his arms by his side, fisting his hands. He didn't want to accidently grab her, startling her. Or worse, hurt her. God, never again did he want to see those lilac bruises blooming on her creamy skin. He had to be careful with her. Gentle.

He leaned down, conscious of how the top of her head only came to his collar bone. She tilted her head up to his, and as much as he wanted to dive right in, he held himself back. He brushed kisses along her brow, over her eyes and cheeks, until finally settling butterfly soft on her lips.

He rubbed his lips against her soft ones, barely containing his sigh. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, plunge his tongue inside her mouth and explore every dip and crevice. He wanted to curl his tongue around her name while kissing her deep.

He pulled away before he lost control and grabbed her. He watched as her lashes fluttered, loving how she looked up at him a little dazedly.

"That's it?" she demanded, and he smiled at her. Damn, she was cute.

He leaned down again, shoving his face in the crook of her neck and inhaling a lungful of her flowery scent.

"Do you work tomorrow night?" She shook her head, and he reveled at the feel of her silky hair sliding against his face. "Then I'll see you in two nights for dinner."

"Then you'll kiss me?"

He smiled, pressing his mouth against her neck. "I'll kiss you as much as you'll let me," he promised in her ear.

"Good," she said briskly, pushing him away, making him want to laugh. "Now go." She waved him away.

"Yes, ma'am."

She wrinkled her nose, and it made him want to laugh even more.

"Go inside first. Let me hear you lock it."

The crinkles in her nose deepened. "You're bossy."

He grinned and shook his head, waiting for her to get inside safely.

She smiled at him, and his world fell off its axis. He realized then he rarely saw her smile, and he decided to make it his life's work to get her to do so more often. She went up on her toes and pecked him on the cheek before slipping inside. He waited until he heard the lock turn before making his way down the sewer toward the nearest exit.

Graham barely restrained himself from fist bumping the air like an adolescent boy after getting his first kiss. He needed to start making plans now. Chantilly hadn't given him any indication that she'd come back to Texas with him, but he was a smart enough man to know he had two months to convince her to take a chance on him. In the meantime, he needed to make sure all his paperwork was in order to leave the military and to contact a cleaning service back in Addison to get the farm ready. No way did he want to bring his new family back to a home covered in dust, especially little Mattie.

Graham was so caught up in his thoughts, he nearly missed the shadowy figure that darted into one of the tunnels ahead of him. His hand went to his firearm tucked under his jacket as he quickly neared the intersection, his boots nearly silent on the wet brick walk. This part of the tunnel was mostly unused, and he didn't like the thought of someone who didn't belong being anywhere near Chantilly's apartment. He peered around the corner, squinting his eyes to see in the dark.

The figure darted into another tunnel, but not before moonlight from a grate flashed across the person's face.

"Forrest?"

Graham removed his firearm from his holster and moved quickly to intercept. He didn't know what Forrest was up to or where he'd been since the Initiative insurrection, but Graham knew he couldn't make the same mistake of ignoring him that he had last time. Not when Chantilly and her broodlings were at stake.


	10. Chapter 10

I don't own or profit from BtVS.

I suggest rereading chapter 24 of Dawn of a New Age. It will give you a clearer understanding of the subtext in this chapter.

Many thanks to ObscureBookWyrm.

**The Dawning**

Chapter Ten

Spike stood in elegant _dishabille_, his pointed white collar and two-inch cuffs in sharp contrast to the ultra-black rumpled Hugo Boss suit, and poured himself a glass of Glenlivet from the cut-crystal decanter that sat atop of the polished chrome and glass wet bar inside his office at _Eden. _He silently offered to pour one for Dekker, shrugging when the demon shook his head, keeping his sentinel position by the door.

Dekker eyed the whiskey, knowing the nearly full decanter would be empty by the end of the night.

"You doin' okay, boss?"

"Never better." Spike belted back the whiskey and poured himself another before taking the decanter and his tumbler back to his desk.

Spike's spirits hadn't improved after holding his baby girl for the first time a few days ago. If anything the vampire's mood had worsened. He was unpredictable and nasty, nearly breaking two of a Centoid demon's eight arms when the male dared to grab one of the working girls.

Arm-breaking fell squarely in Dekker's job domain, so Spike branching out to commit violence against the customers made the bodyguard squirrely. Something was going on with the guy, and like usual, Dekker was pretty sure it had something to do with the Slayer.

He couldn't understand the appeal himself. Sure, the Slayer was strong, but she was an unattractive, scrawny bag of bones. All golden hair and skin. Downright ugly, she was.

But the boss loved her. He claimed differently, but it was clear to anyone who knew him. He loved her, despite how ruthlessly she broke his heart.

Seeing his baby girl and his woman hadn't improved Spike's mood one bit. The visitation had only made it worse. Being with the Slayer and holding Dawn had made Spike long for the family he'd never have, and it made him as mean as a Fyarl demon in heat.

Dekker could sympathize. He was a mated male with eight broodlings. He couldn't imagine his life without his family, and if _anyone _dared to take them from him, they'd be greeted by one awesomely pissed off Purgos demon in his full brute strength glory.

The smell of wood smoke was Dekker's only warning before dark shadows began to boil out from under the small crack beneath the door. Dekker scowled, resisting the urge to try stomping on the unformed shadows with his size twenty X-element motorcycle boots with the steel-reinforced tread.

Not that it would do any good.

The smoke swirled to the center of the room, forming into a towering, dark male irreverently dressed in dark jeans and a plain black t-shirt. Wicked, flame-like tribal tattoos swirled up the male's left arm, disappearing under his tee before reappearing at his collar, climbing all the way up his neck and along his shaved skull, ending at his temple. The black tattoo melded with his dark skin, becoming nearly invisible in low light, but something about the way it twisted and flared told of old, ancient magic that made Dekker's insides clench. The magic of the tattoo was evident in its very existence, going from soot black to bright reddish-orange when the demon became enraged. A demon of his power shouldn't be marked permanently in any form, either by scarring, burning or inking, yet the tattoo existed in all its burning glory.

"Dammit, Smoke. You're supposed to knock," Dekker snarled.

Smoke's oily-black eyes swiveled to Dekker, before centering back on Spike. Smoke's gaze disconcerted Dekker on a primal, predatory level. The black eyes, completely devoid of any color, even white corneas, designated Smoke as being a descendent of primordial demons. One of the first demons to be birthed out of the darkness before the war between light and dark.

In the hierarchy of demons, it should be Smoke who claimed the crown of master of Sunnydale, but the taciturn man never made a move to dethrone Spike. He even went so far as to serve Spike as one of his cadre. His nonchalance toward demon hierarchy made Dekker nervous and it was because of this, that he was determined not to show the greater demon any reverence.

Dekker was Spike's man. His loyalty was the vampire's, completely and irrevocably.

Spike, on the other hand, didn't seem to care about Smoke's pedigree, and treated him the same as any other demon in his cadre. If you preformed well, you were rewarded; if you stepped out of line, you were punished. Fortunately, Smoke never stepped out of line. Dekker shivered to think what a clash between the fire demon and the vampire would look like.

"Why? Knocking would waste time."

"You can't just barge in. What if the boss wanted privacy?"

Smoke's dark eyes roamed over Spike, before settling on the bottle of liquor at the vampire's elbow.

"Why?" Smoke asked in the same casual tone as before. "It isn't like the boss is going to be in here fucking some female."

Spike growled, ivory fangs flashing briefly beneath his curled lip. Dekker tensed, coming off the wall he'd been leaning against.

Smoke merely raised a brow. Everyone in the room knew Smoke spoke the truth. Spike wasn't going to be fucking any females anytime soon. No matter how broken-hearted, he still belonged to Buffy. A weakness that didn't need to be spoken aloud.

"Do you have a reason for being here, Gamesh?" Spike spat. Calling the fire demon by his given name, instead of his handle, had the same result as having his leash yanked. The demon straightened, his expression hardening.

"Just checking in with the latest intel."

The reason no one fucked with Smoke, other than his being a primordial, was that his insubstantial form gave him access to all kinds of hidden places. The male could disperse himself so thoroughly that even his subtle wood smoke scent couldn't be detected in a closed room. There wasn't a locked room or hidey hole that could hold the demon at bay. Because of this it made him a deadly effective spy and assassin.

"Let's have it." Animosity forgotten, Spike leaned forward on his elbows, giving all his attention to his man.

"Vampires calling themselves the _Mitutu _are nesting out by the Slayer's end of town––"

Spike cut Smoke off with a slash of his hand. "Don't worry about them."

Smoke raised a brow. "They're worshiping ––"

"I know. Alright." Spike shook his head, looking slightly constipated. "I know what they're worshiping, and just no."

"No?"

"No."

"Alright, moving on. Some demons have moved into a penthouse in downtown. Their sole purpose in life seems to be amassing the largest Dolce and Gabbana collection known to man."

Spike sat back in his chair. "Okay…"

"They're especially fond of snakeskin. Snakeskin pumps. Snakeskin belts. Not above leopard and zebra print dresses either."

Spike scrubbed the back of his neck. "Nothin' wrong with that, I suppose."

"And red. They really like red."

The three men shared a look and shrugged.

"Demons and vampires have been gathering, rallied by some sort of throwback of the Initiative. Something that escaped during the raid."

Spike ran a hand down his face. Dekker knew his boss didn't like to be reminded of anything to do with the Initiative. Those assholes had cost the man everything he held dear, and they continued to be a thorn in his side.

"What do you mean rallying?"

"Apparently this guy is offering up some sort of new world order. A place where demons and vampires will rule over the humans together."

"Christ, a fanatic," Dekker groaned. "I hate those guys."

"Do you have anything other than supposition?" Spike snapped, causing Dekker to eyeball him. When the boss started hurling around five dollar words it usually meant someone was going to get their ass handed to them.

Smoke shrugged, unaffected by Spike's nastiness. "I'm going to check it out now. They're hiding out in some cave in Breaker's Woods. Thought I'd swing by to let you know before I head out."

"Fine. Get some useable intel. I don't really care what some power-hungry demon is up to, just as long as it doesn't affect our people."

"Or the Slayer?" Smoke asked, seemingly unaware of how close his ass was getting to the fire. Or maybe he thought he was immune, being a primordial fire demon and all.

Spike tensed, and Dekker stepped forward, ready to defuse the situation.

"You still stalking that little girl?" Dekker smiled at Smoke, flashing rows of shark teeth.

Instantly, the vibe in the room changed. Smoke's demeanor changed from superior to almost sheepish. "I'm not stalking her," Smoke growled.

"Nah. Just watching her as she sleeps." Dekker chuckled and crossed the room, being sure to pass between the two men to disrupt the charged glare Spike was still sending the fire demon. He opened the cabinet beneath the wet bar, pulled out a silver bottle, and poured himself a glass of mercury-colored Slit'shr. The stuff was worse than hillbilly moonshine; even Spike with his cast iron gut didn't know how the demon could stomach the rot.

Spike leaned back in his leather chair, taking a sip of Glenlivet. "I know a bloke who likes to watch the girlies through their bedroom window."

Smoke snarled, dark strands of shadows standing up on his arms, waving like sea-swept tentacles. "I don't watch through the window." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I stand over her bed," he admitted.

Spike blinked, and Dekker's toothsome smile grew wider. "Creeper," the demon muttered through his rows of teeth.

"She has nightmares!"

"Yeah, and you standing over her bed is just what the doctor ordered."

Smoke tossed Dekker a truly evil look that a normal demon would have taken as a threat to watch his back. Dekker just threw back his head and laughed.

"How is the little mouse?" Spike asked while booting up his PC. Keeping Eden afloat and profitable was never-ending work.

"Still healing."

Spike's lips firmed, his chin dipping. "She'll be compensated."

"Yeah, she will be," Smoke promised, casting his boss a dark look. "'Til then I'm keeping an eye on her."

"Sure, cause sane, normal women just love to be creeped on. You're lucky she's human. A demon woman would have dismembered you by now. Why, my lovely, sweet Fec'lamar would have pulled my scrotum clear over my horns if I tried peepin' on her."

"That's because your wife is a nasty, flesh-eating giantess who's beat every male down at Willy's in arm wrestling," Smoke sneered.

"Oh, yeah." Dekker rubbed his belly, his satisfied smile growing. "She's some kind of woman. Not some timid _human _who's afraid of _shadows." _In a small explosion of air, Gamesh dispersed into smoke and floated beneath the door, ignoring Dekker's pleased laughter chasing him from the room.

"Oh, come on, Firestarter. Was it something I said?" Dekker boomed. The air vibrated with a growl, and Dekker continued to laugh long after Smoke trailed away.

Spike watched the men's antics, leaning back in his chair. His long fingers played along the edge of his leather blotter, his other hand wrapped around his glass as if loath to give up his grasp on the whiskey even briefly.

"You'd think he'd know better than to get involved with a human woman." Dekker's laughter died away, and he watched as Spike swallowed down more of the amber-colored alcohol. "Sure way to get his heart broken."

Dekker finished off his own drink, setting the glass aside. He only allowed himself one drink when working, and he never drank at home. He crossed his arms, tucking his fingers beneath his pits, trying for hearty nonchalance.

"No worries. Don't think that one has a heart."

Spike slugged back the last of his drink, finally setting his glass away from him as he turned toward the computer screen. "We've all got hearts, no matter how we try to dig them, still beating, from out chests."

Dekker was saved from having to reply by a timid knock on the door. Spike looked up from the screen, inhaling deeply.

"Come in, Chantilly."

The little flower demon shuffled inside, her hands clasped tightly together. Dekker didn't need Spike's super sniffer to tell something was wrong.

Dekker strode towards her, careful to stop a few feet away. Ever since being a prisoner of the Initiative she had been skittish. No one knew what happened to her there, but they had their suspicions. Just the thought of what she must have suffered made his fists knot up with the need to hit something repeatedly.

"What's the matter, girl?"

She lifted her head just high enough to send Spike a skittering glance from beneath the thick fringe of her coral lashes.

"It's Graham."

Dekker ground his teeth together in order to keep his bitter words to himself. The soldier was one man he'd like to get beneath his fists. Dekker didn't care that the male claimed to have a change of heart. He was a soldier of the Initiative. As far as Dekker was concerned that was enough to sign the man's death warrant.

"What about him?" Spike asked.

Chantilly's swallow of fear was loud enough for Dekker to hear, even feet away. "He's missing." She unknotted her hands, her long finger skimming along her throat. "I'm afraid something's happened to him."

Spike leaned back in his chair. "How do you know he's missing?"

"He was supposed to come over for dinner last night."

Dekker couldn't contain his scoff. It was bad enough the male entered their territory with his declarations of regret, but to try and claim one of their females as his own? It was unconscionable. Worse, Chantilly seemed to be falling for the man's manipulations and lies.

"Maybe he was off torturing some other female and forgot the time."

Chantilly scowled at him, nearly setting Dekker back on his heels. As a pacifist demon, she never scowled. Never got angry that he'd seen.

"Graham isn't like that."

"Sure he isn't."

"Knock it off, Dekker." Spike turned his attention back to Chantilly. "Is it possible he stood you up?"

Chantilly blushed. "No."

And there it was, transcendence of love in a single word. Her conviction of Graham's utter devotion to her. And wasn't that the fate of every single man there, even Gamesh. Devotion to a single woman, despite the heartbreak or tragedy it could potentially bring them.

Spike rubbed a shaking hand over his mouth, unsettled deep in his core, and wondering if he'd ever be free of Buffy. Wondering if he ever wanted to be.

"Well, then. I guess we better find him."


End file.
